


Between the Lines

by hilliardmackenzie



Series: Between the Lines [1]
Category: Bad Girls, Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilliardmackenzie/pseuds/hilliardmackenzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This series is meant to fill in the blanks and backstory starting with episode 6 of season 3 of Wentworth (Franky/Bridget - Fridget) with an AU "Bad Girls" (Helen/Nikki) crossover that also includes references to Diana Southey from "The Time of Our Lives" and Kim Legaspi from "ER". I don’t own any of those characters, nor do I claim ownership of the characters I've created (so if you want to write a story and include them, feel free). I’m thankful for the creators of the others for creating great characters and for the actresses who breathe life and crazy amounts of chemistry into these roles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bridget & Jyoti & Helen & Nikki

“Hi,” she exhaled tucking her iPhone between her ear and shoulder while she placed her briefcase on a dining room chair. “It’s Bridget.”

“Hiya,” Helen Stewart replied, familiar lilting Scottish brogue bringing a smile to the Aussie forensic psychologist’s lips. “We were just saying that we needed to ring you. How are you?”

How was she? That would take a while to answer with any degree of accuracy, particularly given her tumultuous day and ensuing realizations…

“I, uh, am fine,” Bridget replied in a high, breathy pitch that belied the words.

After a pause the Scot responded, “Nikki’s grilling salmon.” Helen’s calm, firm voice that was soothing to Bridget’s soul as her friend continued. “Grab a bottle or two from that terrific wine collection of yours and come over.”

“You sure?” Bridget returned even as she started down the hall to her bedroom, shrugging out of her jacket as she walked. 

“Yes,” Helen said. “In fact if you’re not here in a half hour I’ll be forced to come round to your place to find you and –“

“Point taken,” Bridget smiled into the phone, stopping Helen’s friendly threat. In that moment Bridget felt so much love and relief that she had such a kind and trusted friend to talk with. “I’m just gonna change out of my work clothes and I’ll be straight over.”

“Excellent! See you soon.”

Bridget ended the call as she padded barefoot on the hardwood floor, entering her bedroom and bee-lining for her closet. Three years ago when she and Jyoti bought the apartment they planned major renovations of the kitchen and baths, as well as fresh paint and hardwood floors throughout and a fancy custom closet organization system that delayed their move in for two and a half months. 

The accident happened two weeks before they were to move, which meant that though Bridget and Jyoti had chosen countless details of this home together, they had never actually lived together in this space. After the accident Bridget had questioned whether or not to go ahead with the move. It meant leaving the smaller flat they had shared for the last five years of their nine-year relationship. But the smaller unit was already sold and the paperwork irrevocable, so even as she worked through the details and grief at the sudden, inexplicable accident that claimed her lover’s life, Bridget moved into this new space on her own. 

The tricked-out wardrobe where she now stood was Jyoti’s idea, with more than enough custom space for both women’s clothes and Jyoti’s sizable shoe collection. For months after Jyoti’s death, Bridget couldn’t enter the space without tearing up at its obvious void of her lover’s possessions, scent and energy. Now, three years later Bridget’s possessions had expanded to claim more of the space - as was true for the entire apartment. They were hers and hers alone now. 

Clad in jeans, violet-black V-neck tee and black clogs, Bridget headed back down the hall to the open living/dining room and adjacent kitchen to retrieve wine. The floor to ceiling wine rack was another of Jyoti’s ideas. While Bridget had never been a connoisseur, she had learned much through her lover’s passion for the stuff. She stood before the collection and, after a brief search, selected a bottle each of Gamay and Pino Gris that would pair well with salmon. 

Bottles stowed in a wine tote, Bridget grabbed her wallet and keys and, unthinking, looked in the mirror. Grief had left its mark on her still-pretty face but she saw the signs of worry, the scant deepening of fine lines around her eyes, something only she could see and feel but they were there. She smiled at herself and shook her head a little. _How did I let this happen?_

 

Helen and Nikki lived a quick 10-minute car ride away but with traffic, it would take every bit of her allotted time to get there. She smiled knowing Helen would make good on her threat to hunt her down if she was late. There were worse things than having such a protective, loyal friend.

Bridget had met Helen Stewart and Nikki Wade six years earlier, right after the couple relocated to Melbourne from Sydney. Helen and Nikki had first moved from London for Sydney years earlier when Helen was hired to helm the first St. Margaret’s House project, a new model program for women parolees that combined housing, job training and placement, mental and physical health and social service support. The program had made headlines around the globe with an unparalleled success rate. It had been such a success in Sydney that the parent nonprofit expanded to open a similar space in Melbourne.

Once Helen and Nikki had made the move south, friends hosted a cocktail party for several community members with obvious possible ties to or interests in St. Margaret’s. Bridget and Jyoti, who both fit that bill, had each gone directly from work to the party and Jyoti had arrived before her. 

As she made her way through the crowd, Bridget greeted friends and colleagues, her ears picking up on distant laughter, including the melodic chortle of her lover. Bridget grabbed a glass of wine before pursuing the sound.

The house was Spanish style with a central courtyard where she found Jyoti, whose Indian skin glinted gold in natural sunlight, wavy black hair cut short, clad in a burnt orange tunic and flowing black linen pants – one of Bridget’s favorite looks for her. Jyoti was speaking animatedly with a taller dark-haired woman. A shorter blonde stood between them, her back to Bridget. 

As she neared, Bridget noted that but for differing skin tones, Jyoti and the taller woman could be related. They were both long and lean with similar posture. She heard the other woman speak, English accent distinct as it reverberated off stucco and tile, “We’ll have to strike up a match soon. Or doubles – does your partner play?”

“If the sport is tennis, the answer is yes but not well,” Bridget replied, three faces turning to her.

She didn’t miss the brightening in Jyoti’s face as their eyes met. “Here she is!” Bridget moved closer as Jyoti extended her hand, guiding the blonde to her side. Jyoti placed a sweet, soft kiss on Bridget’s cheek, breath warm in Bridget’s ear as she exhaled into the embrace.

“Bridget, this is Nikki Wade,“ Jyoti indicated the taller woman. “She’s a landscape architect.” Bridget offered her hand, which Nikki shook, her open smile immediately endearing Nikki to the psychologist. 

“How d’you do?” the brown-eyed Brit greeted her. 

“Nice to meet you,” Bridget returned.

“And this is her wife,” Jyoti continued. “Helen Stewart.” Bridget’s head turned to meet bright eyes and a warmth and depth that Bridget felt at once in her solar plexus.

“Hi, Bridget,” the Scot said. “I’ve been hoping to meet you.” Bridget tilted her head, curious. 

“They just moved down from Sydney and were in London before that,” Jyoti continued taking Bridget’s free hand in her own. “Helen’s the brains behind St. Margaret’s project.”

Bridget and Jyoti had heard so much about it from their circle of friends, which included many lawyers, health professionals and social service workers. Bridget had spent her career in the first phase of justice – working with lawyers on both sides to determine psychological competence and usher charged women safely through the prosecution phase. Increasingly, though, as she saw women succumb to the revolving door of incarceration and release, Bridget’s interest had veered toward working with women who were in prison, helping them to work through the roots of what led them into criminal behavior in the first place. She was excited by the prospect of what a program like St. Margaret’s could do to transform women’s lives.

“In addition to Jyoti’s glowing description of you, Abby O’Neill has brought your name up a dozen times,” Helen said, smiling. “ She says you’ve the most insight about the issues with the current state of prosecution, incarceration and parole of anyone in Victoria.”

Bridget’s eyebrow arched at the mention of her mentor’s name. They had briefly been lovers too but the mentor relationship outlived the rest.

“Abby’s totally biased,” Jyoti said, lovingly teasing Bridget. “But she’s also correct. Bridge is the best.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Bridget smiled at her lover. “Abby’s told me about you and this wonderful idea,” Bridget said to Helen. “I’m absolutely interested in seeing this come to fruition and I’m happy to help in any way.” 

That first evening had cemented their friendship. As Nikki and Jyoti chatted and worked the crowd, Bridget and Helen had settled into patio chairs and spent hours in deep discussion, punctuated occasionally by visits from Nikki and Jyoti to deliver drinks or small plates of hors d’oeuvres.

When it came time to go they had exchanged contact information and it hadn’t been a week before Jyoti and Bridget had invited Helen and Nikki over for dinner.

* * *

Bridget’s black Porsche convertible cornered perfectly as she turned onto Helen and Nikki’s street. She drew in a deep breath, inviting the wind to wash her clean of thoughts, worries and desires. But as she slowed, nearing the Stewart-Wade house, she knew that wind nor the crazy number of yoga classes she’d taken in the past several weeks, the long runs nor the meditation sessions would help. All roads (and thoughts) led to one maddening, impossible, uncontrollable destination. 

She was expecting Helen but, instead, an apron-adorned Nikki greeted her at the door. “Hi, babes,” Nikki greeted her, free hand reaching for Bridget’s forearm, pulling her in to kiss her cheek. “It’s been too long. So glad you’re here.”

They stepped into the foyer as Bridget said, “Thanks for letting me crash your dinner at the last minute.”

“You’re not crashing anything,” Nikki assured her. “You’re always welcome. Look, Helen’s on a call. Care to join me at the grill?”

“Sure,” Bridget agreed as they walked through the dining room and kitchen. “Wine?” she offered, placing both bottles on the counter.

“I’m working on a bourbon but go ahead and pour a glass,” Nikki said. “I’ll have some with dinner and I know Helen will.” 

Glass in hand, Bridget opened the slider and inhaled a delicious waft of smoke, bourbon, honey, lime and ginger as Nikki basted four salmon steaks on the grill.

“That smells divine,” Bridget said over the sizzle of glaze hitting fire. 

“Thanks,” Nikki smiled, placing the glaze bowl on the nearby patio table. “I won’t ask you to catch me up on everything until Helen gets here or you’ll have to do that twice, but craziest damned thing. I just got off a job for someone you know. Joan Ferguson.”

Bridget nearly spit out her mouthful of wine. “Sorry – what? A job?”

“Landscaping,” Nikki continued. “She’s got a great house – a touch severe but, you know, it would be. She wanted her backyard transformed a bit. It’s a great bit of space. But yeah, in the final consult I was making small talk and it came up that she was governor at Wentworth. I nearly asked if she knew you – I mean she would – but I just… didn’t.”

The look on Nikki’s face said it all – there was something dark and ominous about Ferguson. “Yeah, we are acquainted,” Bridget confirmed. “But it’s probably best you didn’t mention it because she is – uh – resistant to the idea that mental health counseling can have beneficial effects on the incarcerated women. I’m a bit of a fly in her ointment.”

“Well, watch yourself with that one,” Nikki cautioned. “I ran up against a few with that dark streak when I was in and they can be vicious. She’s a bit of a freak.”

“That’s what the women call her – the freak,” Bridget said, somewhat amused but more disturbed by the growing bells and whistles in her mind that pointed to something being seriously wrong with Ferguson. “She seems to have it in for certain inmates. It’s… something. It’s on my radar.” Particularly when it came to one inmate. And of course, that was the problem.

As she wiped her hands on the dark-colored apron, Nikki looked at Bridget and opened her mouth as if to speak but no words came out.

Bridget’s eyebrows arched gently as if to encourage Nikki’s words. Nikki’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly and suddenly Bridget realized that this woman, about whom she had remarked on countless occasions as possessing a singular gift for reading faces with incredible accuracy, was now reading her.

Bridget willed her face to go blank but she was too late. 

“You’ve met someone.” It was a statement, not a question.

Bridget had worried about how Nikki would react when she eventually started dating again. Nikki remained true to her nature though, smiling warmly, “Who is she?” 

Nikki and Jyoti had quickly become the best of friends having a remarkable lot in common including childhoods where they were marginalized and largely ignored owing solely to their gender. Jyoti had been estranged from her parents since she left India and so in many ways Nikki had been her replacement family – a sister or close cousin, a confidant. Nikki had taken Jyoti’s death nearly as hard as Bridget did.

Bridget exhaled and was pondering where to begin when the slider opened and Helen emerged, glass of wine in hand. 

“You’ll never guess who that was,” Helen said without preamble, taking the few short steps toward Bridget. Helen hugged her tightly and longer than usual.

“Who?” Bridget asked, hoping she could buy a little time before answering Nikki’s question. 

“Diana Southey,” Helen smiled. As forensic psychologist for the prosecution, Bridget had worked on dozens of cases with Diana over the years. They had both been in long-term relationships all the while and socialized as couples. Jyoti’s accident and Diana’s divorce came within a year of one another and a little after the two year mark, Diana had called to ask her out on a date.

Bridget never had the first thought about dating Diana, but it didn’t take a genius to recognize that the slightly older woman was beautiful, smart, accomplished, engaging so Bridget said yes. It was her first date in 11 years, a fact that took her breath away and gave rise to nervousness. 

Diana suggested dinner at a great little bistro. After ten minutes of stilted, awkward conversation the prosecutor had looked across the table and said, “You know, Bridget, this match looks great on paper. I mean you’re beautiful and smart, accomplished and funny – I just – “

“We don’t have chemistry,” Bridget agreed. 

“Yes!” Diana exhaled, letting out a relieved laugh. “Which is crazy because you’re very attractive.”

“As are you,” Bridget smiled. “I think I just may not be ready to date just yet.”

“Maybe that’s the case for me as well,” Diana said. They spent the rest of the evening in easy, enjoyable conversation and had parted on excellent terms. As she walked to her car she had called Helen to share the experience and the Scot had demanded she come straight over to give them a play-by-play. 

“Get this – Diana’s met someone,” Helen said. “Another lawyer, heretofore hetero, single mother and they’re getting married! She called to confirm our address for the invitations. You’re invited too.”

Helen threw her arms around Bridget, kissing her cheek. “Is it awful I’m glad you’re not marrying Diana?” she asked. 

“No!” Bridget exclaimed. “I’m glad too.”

“Cheers to that,” Nikki said, offering her highball glass in a toast.

As she clinked her wine glass with Nikki’s, Bridget said, “I’m happy for her and wish them the best. And you know the wedding will be top of the line.” 

“Nothing but the best,” Helen agreed. “Glad you’re here, Bridge. It’s been too long.”

* * *

Dinner passed in a whirlwind of catching up over divine food. Nikki was a landscape architect by profession but her culinary skill was professional level and as she took the last sip from her second glass of wine, Bridget was thankful to feel nourished and somewhat relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Throughout dinner Bridget had deliberately turned questions of how she was into stories and remarks from her new job at Wentworth, but she knew the Scot wouldn’t let the evening pass without the true answer. For her part, Nikki hadn’t again brought up the question of who had caught Bridget’s eye, though a few times Bridget caught Nikki studying her a little more intently than usual so that was a matter of time as well.

After they ate and cleaned up, Helen and Bridget settled into the broad leather couch in the living room while Nikki excused herself to the study in order to make a few calls. 

“So, how are you – truly?” Helen asked when they were alone. “There’s something… unsettled about you.” Her calm, sure voice somehow made it easier for Bridget to confide in her. 

Bridget smiled wryly. “Uh, yeah. I uh…” She drew in a deep breath. “There’s someone… a woman… an inmate…”

She saw the space between Helen’s jaw and eyebrows increase the slightest bit but the one micro-movement was enough to make Bridget know that Helen got the gist.

“I wasn’t looking for it, it was just…“ Bridget grappled for words. “There. I don’t really know what it is. And then today…”

Helen’s hand landed lightly on Bridget’s forearm. “Why don’t you catch me up from the beginning?” Bridget nodded, the even tone and sincere lack of judgment from her friend already making her more at ease. “What’s her name?” 

“Franky Doyle,” Bridget said. 

“Wait – the one from the reality tv show?” Helen asked. 

Bridget nodded. “Have you seen the video?”

“Sure – didn’t everyone?” Helen asked. “Anyone watching that with a shred of training in psychology could tell it was triggered. It doesn’t excuse the attack but it certainly explains it.”

“Be that as it may, she’s doing seven years for assault,” Bridget said. “Like you, I’d seen the video – hell, discussed it with colleagues even. It’s textbook, classic. So incredibly avoidable.” Bridget sipped her wine.

“When I got to Wentworth her name kept coming up,” she continued. “She was one of the top dogs – revered by some, feared by others. After hearing her name a few dozen times in the span of my first week – from inmates, from guards – I pulled her file to see for myself.”

“Childhood abuse?” Helen asked. 

“Mom was an alcoholic and addict,” Bridget nodded. “Verbally and physically abusive. Dad took off when she was a kid. She had to fend for herself in incredibly volatile circumstances.”

“Interesting parallels,” Helen remarked, her gaze steady on Bridget who simply nodded. Bridget’s own story was remarkably similar except that when her mother left her alcoholic, drug-addicted father, she had taken Bridget with her. If not for her mother’s decision to leave and her eventual marriage to the man who adopted Bridget as his own, she could have easily been in Franky’s circumstances. As it was, Bridget knew what wonderful life was possible for Franky once she faced up to her emotional scars.

“In the three years she was in, she’d been to two counseling sessions and, judging from my predecessor’s notes, she had no idea what to do with her,” Bridget said. “What I knew before I met her was she was off-the-charts smart, a hard worker. Trust issues, sexualized toward women superiors, quick-tempered but only with specific triggers. She had been taking legal workshops and advocating for fellow inmates.”

“Sounds like, more or less, a better-than-average inmate,” Helen asked.

“Well…” Bridget hedged taking another mouthful of wine. “Allegations of violence against inmates, rumors of a drug ring but nothing ever proven, rumors that she had a thing going with the previous governor – again, unproven. So I had all of that swirling around in my head when we met.”

“Tell me about that,” Helen encouraged.

“She crashed group one day,” Bridget smiled faintly, recalling. “No pretense, she just walked in and said she needed to speak with one of the women in the group. I invited her to stay but she looked at me like I just suggested she set fire to herself. I had seen her picture, of course, and the video but even if I hadn’t I’d have known it was her. I just… recognized her.”

“You mean in the metaphysical, soul recognition sort of way?” Helen asked, though she knew the answer – it was written all over Bridget’s face, infused in her voice.

“Yes, exactly,” Bridget nodded. “Kindred spirit.” 

“It’s no wonder you feel like you know her or her situation given your similar backgrounds,” Helen said. 

Bridget nodded, “Of course you’re right and at first I wrote it off to that but I’ve come to understand it’s more than that.” She was quiet for a moment. ”You know… I don’t feel this way often. Don’t feel that sort of connection.”

“I understand,” Helen said. “Why don’t you finish telling me about meeting her before we get into all of that.”

Bridget nodded and returned to the timeline of her interactions with Franky. She told Helen about meeting her in the hall after session, that a group of Asian inmates were obviously pursuing her. Bridget tried to help but Franky was determined to get slotted, which she did after an outburst in the Ed Room. Bridget told Helen about orchestrating Franky’s release from the slot, then about orchestrating Ms. Bennett’s dropping the threat of an assault charge in exchange for Franky participating in therapy.

“Franky has a charm and wit that really came out at that point,” Bridget noted. 

“She was flirting with you?” Helen inquired.

“Yes, but playfully,” Bridget said. “And it seemed like she was opening up a bit so I played right back – not flirting but humoring her, relating to her, acknowledging her intelligence, fully aware of her possible history of relating sexually to women authority figures. Playing along may have been a bad call on my part but it’s the call I made.”

“You’ve been doing this job long enough to know where the boundaries are,” Helen affirmed. “Wait – is Franky gay?”

“Yes,” Bridget replied. “Out, very open about it. She was off-hand about it in our first session so it was known. I didn’t react, of course. At our second session I pushed her a bit about her chief rival and then there was an incident in the yard where the rival was shivved. It was unclear who did it. And I worried that I’d pushed Franky too far in our session, so I sought her out to see how she was.”

Bridget took another swallow of wine and exhaled. “I could say that my interest and worry was professional because it was, but if I’m being honest, I felt it more deeply than I would for any other inmate,” she confessed. “I should have noticed that then and, I don’t know…”

“Go on,” Helen prompted. “Tell me the rest.”

“So I found her and tried to talk to her about it,” Bridget continued. “But she took it as a violation of our trust that I could think that she could have been the one to do that.” She paused a moment. “I don’t think she could have done it. In fact I know in the core of my being that she’s not that kind of person. I knew it the moment I saw her face. But she was upset and basically told me to sod off.”

“The next day we had group,” Bridget told her. “Another inmate pushed Franky to talk. Franky responded as she does when she’s attacked – she turned the talk around on the other inmate, basically attacking her. We had a private session the following day and Franky went on about my breaking the trust and she wanted me to talk about myself,” Bridget said. “I get it – she wanted to regain some power in the situation. She asked when was my first time with a woman. I asked whether she asked that because I said she behaved predictably toward the inmate. She was unrelenting and I finally asked whether her verbal attack on the other inmate had anything to do with my sexuality. She’s not used to people staying calm when she pushes. She’s also not used to being beaten at her own game. It shut her up but I acknowledged that I am a lesbian and suggested we move on and stick to her.”

“That’s not exactly a secret,” Helen said. “That you’re gay I mean. You’re basically the most eligible bachelorette in Australia. Particularly with Southey off the market.”

“Ha,” Bridget smiled. “Hardly, but thank you for saying so. That bit of news seemed to do the trick but it turns out perhaps a little too well. At our next session she was in full-on flirt mode. I was prepared. It seemed fairly inevitable given her history of relating sexually to female superiors and with this – connection or energy or whatever it is between us. So I was calm and prepared. After a bit she got up out of her chair and walked toward my desk and eventually leaned over the chair where I sat and wondered how my new lipstick tasted.” 

She swallowed remembering. It had taken a lion’s share of willpower to remain present and in control in that moment when Bridget felt the intense magnetic heat between them.

“She had both hands on the arm of the chair, on either side of my arm and she was definitely in my space,” Bridget said. “I asked if she was trying to intimidate me and told her I didn’t like or respect it and she stopped immediately. Took her seat again. I knew then that my instincts were right about her. She’s a good person at heart. Said she was bored which of course she is – she’s so fucking clever. So bright.”

“So you haven’t had physical contact?” Helen asked. “At all?”

“No,” Bridget smiled. “None. But there’s one other incident. This afternoon I was on my way to a hearing and came upon Franky threatening another inmate – the one from the group session. I don’t think she would’ve done anything but still – it was enough to make me know she wasn’t doing anything about her anger issues. I sent the inmate back to her cell to sleep off her drink and then I told Franky I was disappointed in her – personally and professionally.”

Bridget let that hang for a moment, studying her friend’s face for a reaction. When none came, she continued, “I had no conscious awareness of the fact that I had personal feelings until that came out of my mouth. Or at least I didn’t admit it to myself.”

She looked Helen in the eye, “I do have feelings for her, which is… ridiculous and impossible, not to mention in violation of my ethics. Rationally I know that and yet there’s a part of me… What the hell am I doing?”

Helen’s hand again landed on her arm. “I understand.” And she did. Helen and Nikki met when Nikki was incarcerated for a crime she was later cleared of while Helen was governor of the prison. Their story had a happy ending but it was against all odds.

“This is the first time you’ve felt such a connection since Jyoti?” It was more of a statement than a question and Bridget nodded in agreement.

“It’s the first time I’ve even felt attracted to anyone in… forever,” Bridget admitted. 

“Who’re you attracted to?” Nikki asked, strolling into the space. She took a seat beside Helen, arm draping naturally around her shoulders and then Nikki looked at Bridget.

“Her name’s Franky,” Bridget said. “She’s an inmate. And in my care.”

“Ohhh,” Nikki said, studying her. “Well, at least you have the right friends to talk with about this very specific situation.”

“It’s that Franky Doyle – the one from the reality tv cooking show,” Helen told Nikki. The brunette’s eyes widened a bit.

“Seriously?” Nikki asked. Bridget nodded. “We talked about her back when it happened. It was so obvious the guy hit on some emotional damage. I always felt badly for her. She could cook like nobody’s business. Has anything happened?” 

“Not yet,” Helen said.

“Not ever,” Bridget insisted. “I can’t – I would have to give her up as a client if I wanted to pursue something and even then, it’s one-sided or lop-sided at best. She has a history of relating sexually to women authority figures.”

Nikki nodded, “Yeah but I think you can tell the difference in genuine attraction and her working you over.”

“I don’t know that I can,” Bridget admitted. “But it doesn’t matter. If I drop her case I don’t think anyone will pick her up and she has a lot of past hurt to work through. I am confident I can help her through that. That’s the only thing I should be thinking of.”

“Is it just a physical attraction?” Nikki asked. “I mean it’s been a while and she’s pretty hot as I recall.”

“No – it’s deeper than that,” Bridget said. “It was instantaneous. As it was with Jyoti.”

“Love at first sight despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles,” Helen said. “We know a thing or two about that.” They were silent for a moment.

“It does bear some similarities to you and Nikki,” Bridget acknowledged. “But you’re the exception.”

“When’s she up for parole?” Nikki asked.

“Soon,” Bridget admitted.

“Okay – can you catch me up?”

Bridget recounted the story again, throwing in greater detail the second time around. But when they came to the end of the retelling Bridget felt a new conviction that the only caring thing to do was to double down on her therapy with Franky and ignore the other.

“It’s the way I can help her,” Bridget rationalized. “And if there’s something else that’s meant to be it can happen when she’s out. I feel strongly about her getting out because justice, such as it is, has been served in her case. There are things she’s meant to do beyond the bars. So I’ll keep it professional with her. It seems crazy to entertain any other scenario anyway.”

“Yeah, but the heart does its own thing, babes,” Nikki smiled at her. “You feel the way you feel. Be honest with yourself about that. There’s something to it when you talk about her. I’m not saying it’s everything but it’s something.”

Bridget nodded, acknowledging her friend’s wise advice. 

“If it’s meant to be you’ll find a way,” Helen remarked.

But Bridget had made up her mind. If Franky wanted to get real about her anger and issues Bridget would do anything to help her work through it and get to parole. If not, she would forget about her.

Or at least try.


	2. Let 'em Cook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of part 1, which takes place between episodes 6 – 7 of season 3 of "Wentworth." The heat will rise with chapter 3, I assure you. In the mean time this part has a surprise appearance of Sia's "Burn the Pages." I'm generally not a fan of dropping lyrics into fan fiction but the exception is when a song is actually being heard by a character and that's the case here. Anyhow, props to Sia.

After a Friday night of good food, wine and the company of her most trusted friends, Bridget Westfall was convinced she could marshal her feelings, put them into place and do what she was trained to: namely help Franky Doyle work through her issues and usher her to parole and a second chance at becoming a productive member of society.

“Oh and she calls me Gidget,” she said, snorting and shaking her head.

“Like the surfer girl in that American film?” Nikki Wade asked, clearly amused.

“I suppose,” Bridget said.

“Nicknaming can be a sign of affection,” Helen posited.

“Or ridicule, bullying, domination,” Bridget countered, swallowing hard on that last word. “Either way it’s not… appropriate. She’s predisposed to feel positively toward me – I’m a female authority figure and I’m one of the few people who have ever gone to bat for her in her entire life.”

“Or it may be more than that,” Helen Stewart said. “She may recognize a great woman when she sees one.”

“You’re a flatterer, Stewart,” Bridget smiled, patting her friend’s hand. “And I appreciate that quality in you.” The smile melted into a countenance of serious worry. “But seriously, I need to stop this in its tracks.”

“We do appreciate how serious this is,” Helen said, looking directly at her friend. “I’ve been in your spot and I get that this scenario defies logic and your moral and ethical code.”

Bridget exhaled, “Yeah. But at least I know what to do. I believe I can get the ship back on course. I’ll just have to be keen and decisive about boundaries. All business.”

“Well, we’re here for you, you know that?” Helen smiled. “Nikki and I do have pretty specific experiences that color our responses to this but we both love you and support you.”

“Thank you,” Bridget smiled at the pair before her face erupted in a yawn. “Pardon me.”

“Oh my God, it’s so late,” Helen yawned in response. “I lost track. Why don’t you just stay the night?”

“Yes, stay!” Nikki added, standing to stretch long limbs. She reminded Bridget of how Jyoti would do the same after sitting for any length of time. Bridget became lost in that thought and neglected to decline the offer so in minutes she was wishing her friends good night and closing the guest room door behind her.

Bridget had always liked this room. The walls were a creamy sand color with wooden furniture painted white, and white linens with a faint design of the same sandy tan intermingled with grayish-blue and celadon green. A large abstract painting hung above the bed and overall the room had a peaceful quality to it. She had slept here a time or two after Jyoti’s death.

Along with fresh towels, Helen had provided her an oversized t-shirt to sleep in but Bridget wasn’t in the mood so after washing up she pulled the elastic from her ponytail, scrubbing scalp with her fingertips before she stripped and crawled into bed.

She lay still and quiet for a moment, enjoying the soft comfort of the bed and sheets on her skin. She turned on her side and pulled the spare pillow to her chest, wrapping toned arms around it. She often slept like this since she’d been sleeping alone. 

Bridget began to make a mental checklist of articles to read, planning her weekend of realigning her approach to one Franky Doyle. But the wine, soft sheets and extreme quiet lulled her to sleep more quickly than she anticipated.

* * *

Bridget woke up with several disparate sensations: one, the awareness of a lot of light in the room; two, that this wasn’t her bedroom; three, that she was naked – a quick glance at the bed behind her confirmed that she was alone; and four, she had been having a very intense sexual dream moments before. 

Its lingering impressions in her mind were just out of reach though she had a pretty solid suspicion about who had been involved. Its lingering impressions on her body were unmistakable. As her hand slipped down between her legs she had no doubt what she would find. The copious wet, slick heat on her fingertips said it all. She chuckled to herself, at her body’s clear expression of need.

Bridget rolled onto her stomach, focusing on sensation and nothing else as her fingers found a familiar rhythm. Soon, in her mind, the fingers were no longer hers and part of her wanted to fight that but she was already too close to release, sex grinding down with new urgency and drive. She came hard, shuddering, struggling to stifle moans of pleasure as the first orgasm crested and dropped and began to rise again for a second wave.

Minutes later she rolled onto her back, breath returning to normal. She actively kept the awareness of what had just happened at bay. Bridget called herself on her own avoidance and determined to examine it later that day – after a long run or a hot yoga class – and certainly after a cup of coffee.

Sheets stripped and back in her clothes from the previous night, she made her way first to the laundry room where she dropped linens into the washer along with her used towel and washcloth. She took the liberty of adding soap and starting the cycle before padding barefoot to the kitchen where she found Helen and Nikki canoodling.

“Morning,” Nikki greeted her. 

“Good morning,” Bridget smiled.

“How’d you sleep?” Helen inquired, studying her.

“Beautifully well, thank you,” she replied.

“Coffee?” Nikki offered.

“Yes, thank you,” Bridget nodded, accepting the mug that Nikki held out to her.

“How’re you feeling?” Helen asked as the therapist filled her mug, the scent of good coffee never failing to make her mouth water.

“I have a handle on things,” Bridget said, unsure of whom she was trying to convince with the conviction that she voiced but did not feel. “And I have the weekend to really wrap my mind around it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Helen said. “We’ll be around if you want to talk more.”

“Thank you,” Bridget smiled, looking at both of her friends. “You two are… so consistently there for me. I appreciate it and I love you both.”

Nikki smiled but Bridget knew the look in the brunette’s eye. Nikki could tell she was far from out of the woods on the issue of Franky Doyle.

* * *

A bead of sweat ran from Bridget’s hairline, down her temple, slowing as it reached the swell of sculpted cheek bone, before rolling over and dipping into the hollow of her cheek, rolling up over her jaw and dropping into the wind. Normally she ran without awareness of things like perspiration but this day her nerve endings seemed to be set to _highly sensitive_.

She rounded the corner as the Yarra curved southeast, river cutting the natural border of the park as she passed neared the Birrarung Marr. Running usually cleared her head but today she was singular in her focus: reestablishing her professional relationship with Franky. 

Bridget had allowed Franky’s evasions and distractions as an in-road to her resistant psyche but now they had established a rapport and it was time to push a little. She knew that if she could harness Franky’s considerable mind to help the woman get to the root of her issues, that it was likely that Franky could recover and resume a great life of freedom. And she felt confident that if anyone could get through to the inmate, it was she. 

Her phone vibrated in its pocket that was built into the sleeve of her running shirt. A quick sideways glance and she smiled at the caller ID image that filled the screen – a shot of this woman. She slowed her pace and answered the call, her own breath audible in the phone.

After a moment, the distinctly American voice of Kim Legaspi filled her ears, “Did I catch you at an inopportune moment?”

Though they lived on different continents, Bridget considered the psychiatrist to be one of her closest friends. The tall, leggy blonde had breezed into her life at a professional conference in London when they were both early in their careers. Each woman was presenting at the conference and after the blonde chatted her up the first night at the hotel bar, they were already getting friendly.

“Not at all,” Bridget chuckled at her friend’s innuendo, finally slowing to a walk. “I was running.”

“From who?” Kim inquired, clearly amused.

Bridget was silent for a moment. “Well, actually…”

“What’s her name?”

Bridget sighed, “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“What’s his name?” 

“Not _that_ kind of complicated, Kim,” Bridget smiled. “I’d actually love your advice about… the situation.”

“Situation?” Kim asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bridget said, high pitch betraying her for the second time in two days.

“Friend-with-skills kind of advice?” Kim asked.

The two friends usually spoke a few times each month, either by phone or Skype. But occasionally they called one another to discuss something decidedly professional – an ethical question, a patient issue, the need to work out something in their own psyche. It was less formal than a therapy session but more formal than a friendly phone call. It had begun when Kim phoned her out of the blue in the middle of the night – the 14-hour time difference not yet mastered. A patient had made inappropriate sexual remarks about Kim during their session and she wanted to talk it through and get Bridget’s take on how to handle it. 

“I need a friend with skills,” she had told Bridget, and the phrase had stuck. 

Bridget bent forward, stretching her hamstrings. “Yes,” she replied. “But first, how are you?”

“Peachy,” Kim replied. “Just finished an article on my study and I want your take on it. I just emailed it to you.”

“Oh great!” Bridget said. “I’ll read it tonight.”

“If you have time to read it tonight, I take it you don’t have a date,” Kim pressed.

“Uh, no,” Bridget replied. “You?”

After a pause, the American said, “Well, that’s a question with an interesting answer.”

“Oh yeah?” Bridget asked, her turn to be amused. “Care to entertain a sex-starved singleton with your exploits?”

Kim laughed, “Wouldn’t that be cruel and unusual? Are you self-punishing, Miz Westfall?”

“No,” Bridget replied. “Simply living vicariously.”

“Ah,” Kim said. “How about I tell you all the juicy details tomorrow when I call to get your reaction to the paper. That way you can finish your run.”

“Sounds great,” Bridget agreed. “Same time?”

“Perfect,” Kim responded. “Hey, Bridget – thank you. You’re my best editor.”

“Well I know it’s hard for you to strangle me for my suggestions when you’re 14 hours away,” Bridget smiled, feeling great affection for her friend. “When ya coming to see me?”

“Perhaps soon,” Kim said. 

“Seriously?” Bridget asked excitedly. 

“We’re seriously overdue for some one on one,” Kim said. “I’ll look at my calendar in the morning and we can talk about it when I call.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bridget agreed, as a tall, thin brunette woman jogged past. Much as she had argued the point in her 20’s and early 30’s, Bridget definitely had a type. “Speak with you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Kim.”

“Good night, Bridget,” she heard back. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Bridget smiled, warmed as she always was, by the blonde’s wholehearted sweetness.

The brunette woman was now about 200 yards away now, reaching the part where the path curved sharply. Bridget could catch up with her if she pushed. Probably.

But as Bridget walked into a run, she knew she had no real interest in that, preferring a solitary run and thoroughly uninterested in chatting up anyone. She found iTunes again and hit play. Her body hit the beat just as Sia began to sing. 

[Click here to hear it...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-OBiu4hAfY)

On her fifth repeat of the song Bridget knew she had found her mantra for moving forward with Franky. As she rounded the corner of her block, she slowed to a walk and mouthed the words. 

Breath heaving, heart racing she added, “Let ‘em cook, Franky.”

(TBC)


	3. We'll Call Her Corky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This builds on the two previous chapters and the series is going somewhere - trust me.

The Skype call from Kim Legaspi came earlier than Bridget expected. They often Skyped for normal check-in phone calls and, as soon as the service had become available, they always did friends-with-skills calls via Skype. There was something to seeing faces and body language that was insightful. 

“I’ll just congratulate you now,” Bridget said without preamble when she answered, smiling at her friend’s face that filled her iPhone screen. “This study is going to gain you a lot of attention and likely an award or two.”

“Hi,” Kim smiled back at her. “And thanks! I just read the email you sent and thought I’d give you a try. I know I’m a little early. Is this a good time?”

“It’s always a good time to tell you how brilliant you are,” Bridget smiled, giving her a little wink. 

After thoroughly dissecting Legaspi’s innovative paper on a program she had pioneered over the past half decade specifically designed to address the mental and overall health needs of homeless women with schizophrenia – her friend the doctor had fully satisfied Bridget’s few questions.

“You’re my best reader,” Kim told her. “And most trusted. Your questions never fail to make me consider a different angle or take on something. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Kim,” Bridget said. “Anytime.”

Bridget had settled into her favorite armchair, legs tucked under her, cup of coffee that she had brewed while they discussed the study sitting on the nearby side table. Kim had started the call at the table in her small kitchen and later moved to her sunny living room where fuzzy green of the park across from her house was visible through the window behind her. 

Bridget knew the conversation was about to turn toward her and she was gazing at the green pondering where to begin. When her eyes re-focused she saw Kim looking at her patiently, a light smile on her face. Bridget knew that face and was sure it was the key to unlocking many of Kim’s patients. _Trust me_ , it said. _I’m solid, I’m with you in this._ Kim had more than proven that to Bridget in the aftermath of Jyoti’s death. She had called the blonde so many times and at all hours to talk her through her grief. Kim had been solid and with her in it.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Bridget admitted.

“How about the facts,” Kim suggested lightly. 

Bridget drew in a breath. “We’ll call her Corky.” At Kim’s suggestion on their first such friends-with-skills calls, they maintained patient confidentiality by naming their patients for film characters. They would choose a character as close as possible to the patient’s type – physically, emotionally or character-wise. “From _Bound_.”

Silence. Then Kim said, a little breathy, “Oh my. In what way.”

“Nearly every,” Bridget replied.

“Well… that’s… specific,” Kim said. 

“She’s an inmate,” Bridget went on. “And a client of mine.” 

“Oh.”

“She has the bad girl exterior and the heart of an optimist,” Bridget continued. “Father left when she was a kid. Mother was an addict and abuser so basically she learned to fend for herself pretty early on.”

“She’s in for seven on aggravated assault,” Bridget said, taking a sip of her coffee. “She’s done five and is up for parole. No counseling up to this point, which is unfathomable. She has anger issues but she doesn’t feel dangerous. She has a pretty deep streak of empathy. And, predictably, problems with authority, sexualization of female authority figures possibly including the former governor of the prison.”

“Okay – you’ve given me the skeleton,” Kim said. “Let’s flesh out this Corky. Tell me about your first meeting.”

Bridget went on to recount every interaction in as much detail as she could recall, answering an infrequent question of clarification from Kim as she went. It was a bit of a struggle to remember to use the name Corky instead of Franky but otherwise the narrative spilled forth until she came to Tuesday’s session.

“She asked me point blank if I was a lesbian, on the heels of my calling her on eviscerating another woman during group,” Bridget said. “I asked if she did it to impress me.”

“Since she brought up your sexuality as a deflection,” Kim added. “Good call.”

“She knew I had her in a snare,” Bridget recalled. “So she backed down.”

“That says a lot about her anger issues,” Kim suggested. “She does have the ability to control the anger – she just has to want to? Has to know she's being seen and heard?”

“Exactly,” Bridget agreed. 

“So did you answer her question?”

“Yes,” Bridget replied. “It’s not exactly a secret. She could’ve Googled my name and seen my affiliation with any number of gay rights organizations, pictures with Jyoti, and known.”

Kim was silent for a moment. “I had a similar experience years ago but my patient was a teenager,” she finally said. “She had self-harmed and said she was struggling. I told her I was gay to gain her trust and she turned it around and accused me of sexual harassment. But she was a minor and Corky is obviously not.”

“No,” Bridget confirmed.

“How old is she?” Kim asked.

“Twenty-eight,” Bridget said. “She’s been out since middle school and she’s certainly out at the prison.”

“Divulging personal information is always a craps shoot,” Kim said. “More so since you’re dealing with someone who is incarcerated. Are there any possible professional repercussions.”

“Not really,” Bridget replied. “My superior knows I'm gay. It's never been a problem at all. And the prison Governor is... well, if you were casting one of those lesbian fear-mongering movies of the 1950’s she would be exactly who you’d cast as the overbearing, mannish, stern lesbian predator. There’s something not quite right with her. Even Fr – Corky – mentioned that. Asked if I’d checked the governor against the DSM.”

“She’s clever, this Corky,” Kim noted.

“She is,” Bridget agreed. “But this isn’t the whole story yet.”

“Tell me the rest,” Kim smiled.

“At her last session she came in with nothing to discuss,” Bridget said. “I mean, she’s bored. She runs the kitchen and, from what I can tell, has several odd jobs around the prison. She's completed a certificate in legal studies and informally advises many of the inmates on their cases, helps with their appeals and such. She’s busied herself and still she’s bored. The only thing she’s not doing is using that keen mind to figure out her own situation.”

“So in session I said of course she was bored – she was smart,” Bridget continued. “Then she tried clumsily, half-heartedly to turn the talk back to me. I called her on it and she stood up. You know my office – I have the desk and then two chairs sort of angled at each other and I generally sit in the chair closest to my desk." She had Skyped with Kim once from her office during a lunch break, so the American was familiar. "She stood and walked to my desk, moving closer to me, and started to get coy about why we were really there. She leaned down onto my chair with her hands on either side of where my hand rested on the arm of my chair and asked about my new shade of lipstick. Wondered how it tasted.”

“I tried to dismiss it but she continued and basically said she noticed I cross my legs when she comes closer and insinuated she knew what it meant when I smiled at her,” Bridget said, exhaling. “I hung in there, kept my cool and asked if she was trying to threaten or intimidate me because I didn’t like it." 

"How did she react?" Kim asked, brows knit together.

"She seemed genuinely surprised by my response,” Bridget explained.

“Was she angry?” Kim inquired.

“No – in fact as soon as I called her on her behavior she backed down entirely,” Bridget said. “Took her seat again and said she was sick of herself and everyone.”

“And was there physical contact?” Kim continued.

“No,” Bridget replied.

“Did you ever feel threatened?” Kim asked.

“No – not even when she was asking those questions of me,” Bridget responded. “It was more like she was entertaining herself. I trusted my instinct that if I called her on her it she would back off and she did. She’s not used to people being as smart as she is or at least paying attention to her and calling her on her shit.”

“Do you trust her?” Kim asked.

“Yeah,” Bridget said without hesitation. “I don’t know why I do but I do. It’s an instinct.”

“What does she look like?” Kim asked.

“Not entirely dissimilar to the actress who played Corky,” Bridget replied. “Tall, dark, leanly muscular. A fair amount of ink.”

“Your type,” Kim nodded. 

“She’s a client,” Bridget countered. 

“Yes and she’s your type,” Kim said. “Just… be careful. To my knowledge, you haven’t been with anyone since Jyoti and I know your reasons for that.”

Bridget hadn’t been attracted to anyone – it was that simple. She’d tried, she’d worked on it in therapy and discussed it with friends but she was still grieving. So she had thrown herself into her work.

“What I’m saying is this woman sounds like your type,” Kim posited. “And since you’ve not yet moved on after your mourning period – just… raise your self-awareness on this one,” Kim suggested. 

“I get what you’re saying but other than the physical build she and Jyoti are nothing alike,” Bridget said. “I just want so much to help her.”

“She’s lucky to have you on her side,” Kim smiled. “You get past a lot of the superfluous shell layer with tough cases like her. So what’s your plan?”

“I’m going to push her,” Bridget said resolutely. “Make her stick to her therapy and actually dig. She has a lot to figure out and if she’s unwilling to go there then I’ll discontinue her sessions.”

“You’ve talked a lot in very factual terms but not about how you feel,” Kim remarked. “How do you feel about this Corky?”

Bridget had promised herself that when this question came, she would answer honestly. She took a breath. 

“She’s definitely one of my favorite clients,” Bridget said. She and Kim had also been honest about that fact – they definitely clicked with some patients/clients more than others – they were human. “But I would respond to her personality and energy in any situation. In other circumstances we could have been friends. We have a friendly rapport. But literally other than that I’m a lesbian, she knows nothing about me personally. That line is intact.”

“There’s one more piece,” Bridget added. “I came upon a situation later that day. Corky had another inmate up against a wall. The inmate was drunk and obviously in attack mode but Corky was responding. I told her to let the other woman go. She did – immediately. The other woman was fine, just needed to sleep it off. Then said I was disappointed in her – personally and professionally.”

“Tell me about your disappointment,” Kim said.

“I thought we’d made some progress on her anger issues but this was clearly a situation where she was acting out,” Bridget sighed, taking another swallow of coffee. “I felt let down and… like I said, disappointed in her. I know she’s capable of so much more.”

“Where does your personal disappointment stem from?” Kim pressed.

“I take it as a bit of over-investment,” Bridget said, gazing at her friend’s judgment-free face on the screen. “I guess I felt like we connected, that we were making progress. Which shows some deficiency of objectivity on my part.”

“That can happen,” Kim said. “What do you stand to gain or lose from Corky’s rehabilitation.”

“Absolutely nothing,” Bridget admitted. “It’s just – she was a toss-away. The governor had written her off as a lifer. No one was trying to work with her before I got there. I feel like I get her in a way that few have before.”

“It’s good that you think you understand her,” Kim said. “So was she right? About the lipstick and crossed legs and smiles?”

 _Fuck._ The blonde was good.

“I bought a new shade of lipstick because my old one was out,” Bridget said. “Helen was with me when I was shopping and she suggested I try a lighter color. That was it.”

“How are Helen and Nikki?” Kim asked.

“Really well,” Bridget said, feeling a small measure of relief at the topic change. Which was puzzling, and a wee bit concerning. “Had dinner with them Saturday night. You’ll see them when you come visit.”

“I look forward to that,” Kim smiled. “So was she right? About the body language?”

 _Again, fuck._ But this was precisely why she called Kim.

“I’m… not… aware of it… if it’s true,” Bridget admitted. “I mean the smile thing – probably. I’ve been using the friendly approach to get in with her. But it’s just a warm smile.”

“And the legs?”

“I don’t think so,” Bridget said. “You can bet I’ll be paying close attention from here on out.”

“I think your reaching out proactively like this shows that your self-awareness and professional self-preservation is in tact,” Kim reassured her. “I would just caution you to keep pretty well-defined boundaries and that you pursue your instinct to push her. If she is as clever as you’ve indicated she is.”

Bridget nodded and vowed to amp up her boundaries with one Franky Doyle.

“Thank you, Kim,” Bridget smiled at her friend. “You’ve given me a few things to think about and some very good advice. As usual.”

“Is there anything else? About this or anything?” Kim asked.

“No,” Bridget replied. “So when ya coming for a visit?”


	4. F***ed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: lots of F-bombs ahead (with thanks to the writers of Wentworth for giving our favorite duo mouths like sailors.) I’m not a fan of fanfic that re-hashes what we’ve seen on the screen but these gals acted the hell out of some subtext. There were Shakespearean plot twists between these lines so I’m going there. I’ll go beyond as well, so bear with me. Happy reading!

Bridget Westfall was fucked.

What began as a day when she was determined, sure of who she was and what she wanted, ended in a big, gooey, complicated ball of _oh-my-God_ as several realities converged to paint a picture of a truth that had snuck up and bitten Bridget on her yoga-toned ass.

As she walked from her office down to the patient medical wing, Bridget greeted staff and inmates who she knew. There were so many women who were making progress in their sessions. The thought of actually doing some good for them made her smile with satisfaction - particularly in the cases of the harder to reach inmates like Bea Smith, Jodi Spiteri and, of course, Franky Doyle.

When she specialized in forensic psychology, Bridget had traded the opportunity most psychologists had to work with clients over the span of years, developing a therapeutic relationship and helping people to open and respond to the feelings and events over the course of their lives. The scope of her work and therapeutic relationships, first in criminal prosecution and defense, and now in the prison system, was limited to days or weeks, eventually months and, depending on what she found, possibly longer here at Wentworth. She found the goal-oriented work and shorter time span satisfying in a different way.

As she rounded the corner, a familiar voice caught her.

“Gidget,” Franky called. Bridget smirked at the nickname, which part of her enjoyed in the way one might enjoy the teasing yank of an elementary school ponytail, and the other part of her suspected was a subtle form of manipulation – psych 101.

Bridget kept walking, “I’m doing an admissions. Can’t hang around.”

The brunette pursued, pushing a cart of lunch trays, chef’s kerchief tying back choppy black tresses. She knew the former celebrity chef contestant ran the prison kitchen but this was the first time she had seen Franky dressed for the part. She noticed the slightly different energy - the confidence and command that seemed to accompany this fascinating woman in the clothes of her element.

“Hey, what happened to red? Jodi was relying on her,” Franky continued, following her around the corner to the intake rooms.

Bridget inhaled, she had this.

“Franky, you know the deal,” she said, turning to face her client head-on. Bridget’s choice of stark black and white clothing further reinforcing her new all-business stance; boundaries intact. “I’m happy to talk about your situation, not other inmates. Would you like to talk?”

The change in tone registered on Franky’s face and her head cocked to the side.

“I’d like to do a lot of things,” Franky replied with a hint of innuendo and predatory snark.

“I have a free slot this afternoon,” Bridget continued.

Franky’s eyebrows arched as she smiled, “D’ya want me to fill it?” That damned cheeky, cocky Franky – part flirt, part promise.

Bridget shook her head, amused in spite of herself, the all-business fortress breached effortlessly by this woman. “I want you to be serious,” Bridget said.

“I am.” That smile… Sweet, sincere Franky. The one that few people ever bothered to see.

Bridget couldn’t help but return that smile. They had come so far in establishing trust. They still had a long way to go but Bridget knew the younger woman was capable of nearly anything she set her mind to.

The blonde turned to grab the doorknob and shot a final smile back at her favorite client, before opening the door.

“You must be Kim Chang.”

The petite Asian woman seated on the exam table met Bridget’s eyes with a cold, closed off, almost mean look. Bridget had seen it a hundred times before in other clients.

The woman’s eyes darted right and her face lit up.

“Franky!” Chang flew across the room and into Franky’s arms.

“Hey,” Franky replied, surprise evident in her face and voice.

Bridget felt her own heart heart sink.

_Oh fuck._

Any emotion Bridget could ascribe to the burning, squeezing ache in the center of her chest all ended in the fact that she was fucked. In one moment it was as if Bridget opened her eyes from a deep sleep and found reality staring her flat in the face. Or, in this case, mocking her. She’d been blind, a fool and she had utterly deluded herself.

“Miss me?” Chang asked, pressing her body into Franky. All Bridget could do was gape.

“Tha fuck ya doing back here?” Franky asked, holding Kim back to see her face.

Bridget’s eyes fell to the ground as she realized she was gawking. She willed herself to breathe and not totally lose her shit right there in the medical bay 5 in front of Franky, Kim Chang, passers-by and the guard who Bridget always wanted to call Stella, though that wasn’t her name.

“What do you reckon?” Chang purred.

A sideways glance filled Bridget’s vision with the image of Kim sliding her arms around Franky’s neck in a move that left no doubt in Bridget’s mind that the two had been lovers. Perhaps they still were.

“I missed you,” Chang purred.

_Fuck._

There was no way Bridget could un-know this about herself: that she had crossed the line, emotionally at least. There was no escape from the consequences.

_Get it together._

“Back in the office,” barked the not-Stella, yanking Bridget back from her own self-recriminations.

“Bye,” Kim said to Franky, breathily, voice full of pleasure and she literally bounced back past not-Stella and Bridget.

Bridget could feel Franky’s eyes on her face. She quickly looked down to avoid eye contact. Bridget took a deep breath willing her face to be neutral – another skill picked up during years of conversations with clients. She just didn’t usually feel the need to use it around Franky.

When she felt like she could speak, she looked up as she closed the door to see Franky peering at her, a reluctant smile on her face. In that instance Bridget knew the feelings – some feelings – whatever the feelings were between them - were mutual to some extent.

_Fuck._

She wondered if Franky could read the same thing on her face.

Bridget hoped like hell that she could not.

Bridget mustered her best pleasant face, looking Franky square in the eye as she closed the door. “Work to do.” The door shut and Bridget drew in a deep breath before turning around, the same pleasantry plastered on her countenance.

“Let’s try this again,” she said, returning to meet Kim Chang’s slightly-warmer eyes.

Bridget Westfall was so fucked...


	5. Personally and Professionally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers through episode 3x7. This series is continuing as quickly as I can write it. Thanks for the great feedback!

In more than 20 years of work this had never happened to Bridget Westfall. Sure, there had been a few flirtatious clients but she had been able to easily maintain the professional line and shepherd them back into the appropriate therapeutic boundaries.

Franky Doyle not only jumped such curbs, she slipped through undetected and that fact totally unnerved Bridget. The blonde had great confidence in her own abilities as a forensic psychologist. She was one of the best in the field, having received professional honors and the respect of her largely male peer group. Then along came Franky…

Bridget’s friend and colleague, Kim Legaspi, had been right when she noted that Bridget was presently in a more vulnerable position than she had been for some time. Being three years out from her partner’s death with no real prospects of moving forward, Bridget supposed she was unusually open to a connection. And there was no denying a connection between Franky and her.

There had been a spark from their first interaction. Bridget had no confirmation of this being anything more than Franky’s regular MO of flirt or her tendency to sexualize female authority figures, but she suspected it was more than that. If she was honest with herself, Bridget knew it was more.

_If… If._

After their interaction the previous day when Kim Chang’s sudden appearance in Admissions spurred the startling and totally unexpected realization that Bridget had feelings for Franky, Bridget had suggested an open slot in her schedule for that afternoon. But when Franky went to sign up, it had already been filled so she took Bridget’s next availability on the following day. The delay gave Bridget time to ponder her new awareness and what it meant – personally and professionally.

Personally, the answer was short. Nothing could happen. Nothing would happen. Professionally, this was a potentially career-ending situation if it progressed into anything other than a one-sided abstraction. Transference happened but it had never happened to her. Still, there were professional ethics and mechanisms in place to handle it when it did. She needed to talk with a trusted friend in her field, so as she walked to the staff parking lot to leave for the day Bridget calculated the time difference and texted Kim Legaspi.

“Time for a quick friend-with-skills call?”

Kim’s reply came 15 minutes later, “Sure! Just finished rounds. Have about an hour before my first session. Call when you’re free.”

Bridget was less than 10 minutes from home at that point so she finished the drive and waited until she was inside to ring Kim.

“G’day, gorgeous,” Kim greeted her.

“Hi, Kim,” Bridget smiled in spite of the serious reason for her call. “Sorry to interrupt your work day.”

“You are the best interruption I could possibly imagine,” the American replied, patent charm firmly in place. “What’s up?”

Bridget drew in a deep breath and started with the simple truth. “I’m a bit at loose ends. I’ve been lying to myself. The situation with… Corky.” She used the pseudonym for Franky that she had implemented in their first conversation about the inmate.

“What happened?” Kim asked in her easy, present way. Bridget took her through a blow-by-blow of the interaction between Franky, Kim and herself in the admissions suite.

“I can’t believe I’ve been this blind to my own feelings,” Bridget admitted, defeat coloring her voice.

“It happens,” Kim reminded her. “The heart and logic are often independent from one another.”

“Apparently fucking so,” Bridget laughed, mirthlessly. “You don’t sound surprised.”

There was a pause before Kim said, “Bridget, we’ve known each other for nearly two decades.”

“Good point,” Bridget smiled, kicking off her heels. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

“Not with you,” Kim replied. “Nothing has happened beyond what you’ve told me?”

“No,” Bridget said firmly, resolved. “And nothing will. I just need your opinion about whether I need to report this now or try to correct it on my own. Have you dealt with this before?”

“Oh sure,” Kim replied. “I have personally a handful of times - nearly everyone has. There was this one patient who was a dead ringer for Kerry – in looks and temperament.” Kim referred to the fiery redheaded ER chief who she fell head over heels for years earlier when she lived in Chicago. The end of that relationship had sent Kim literally across the country where it took years for her to truly move forward with her life.

“I knew after one session I couldn’t keep my objectivity with that one,” Kim continued. “But I have more discretion over my practice so I just recommended someone else and didn’t have to deal with it in any official capacity.”

“What was your emotional response to her?” Bridget inquired.

“Hell, Bridget,” Kim sighed. “Attraction, anger, protection, guilt – the gamut. I’m human. I feel. And clearly I had some unresolved emotional issues.”

“Don’t we all?” Bridget asked rhetorically.

“How do you feel about yourself in light of this revelation?” Kim asked, bringing the conversation back around.

Bridget considered the question as she padded into the kitchen. “Disappointed in myself,” she finally replied. “Incredulous that I didn’t see this sooner. A little flummoxed, really.”

“Why do you think you didn’t see it?” Kim was so good at this. She maintained a lightness to her tone even as she asked deeply probing questions.

“Because I’ve been hibernating this part of myself since Jyoti’s death,” Bridget admitted, tears pooling in her eyes. “I cut myself off a bit – sexually, certainly, but emotionally, too.”

“Are you talking to anyone about it?” Kim asked.

“Aside from you and Helen and Nikki, no,” Bridget admitted, knowing full well that the American was asking whether she was talking to another psychologist in a therapeutic setting. Bridget drew in a deep breath as she retrieved a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. “I should.”

“How is Abby?” Kim’s question was double-edged. She was both asking about Bridget’s mentor and raising the possibility of Abby O’Neill as a therapeutic option for Bridget. Bridget smiled at her friend’s skill.

“She’s well,” Bridget said. “We’re overdue for a visit. ”

“Countertransference happens,” Kim said. “It’s beyond your control. What is within your control is what you do about it. And one of the top psychologists in the world – a woman who has trained thousands of people on how to deal with this exact situation - happens to be your good friend.”

“I’ll call her tonight,” Bridget agreed taking a sip of the cold water.

“Is there another psychologist at the prison who can take over Corky’s sessions?” Kim continued.

“Of a sort,” Bridget answered. “A chap comes in on Tuesdays to see a few of the women in the protection unit. He’s smart, experienced, capable surely.”

“So that’s an option?” Kim inquired.

“It is…” Bridget confirmed as she walked into the living room.

“What’s your hesitation?” Kim questioned.

“I’ve been at this with – Corky – for weeks now and she’s still not crossed over into trust with me,” Bridget explained. “I would imagine changing course at this point would be detrimental for her progress.”

“More detrimental than being treated by someone whose personal feelings may influence her sessions?” Kim retorted.

“Touche’,” Bridget sighed as she sank into her favorite spot on the oversized sofa. It stung a little but Kim was right.

“Why haven’t you pushed her yet?” Kim asked.

“I’ve been working up to it,” Bridget said. “Slowly. She had some castle-sized fortresses up. I’ve been chipping away.”

“She has a history of violence,” Kim recalled. “Are you sure she can handle it?”

“I’m certain,” Bridget replied. “The fact that she backed down when I called her on the intimidation bodes well, I think. I was just waiting for the right time.”

“Do you think you’ve been avoiding pushing her?” Though the question was blunt, Kim’s tone remained neutral.

Bridget considered the question before she replied, “I really don’t think so. Like I said, I’ve been working up to it.”

“Do you think she’s attracted to you?” Kim asked.

There was no doubt after the incident earlier in the day. “I think she feels something, yes,” Bridget said.

“Do you think she would act on it?”

“I think she already has to some extent,” Bridget replied. “I’ve just kept her at bay.”

“Are you confident you can continue to do so?”

“Yes,” Bridget replied at once.

“You’ve said there’s a connection between you,” Kim pushed.

“There is but it’s…” Bridget grappled for words. “She tests the boundaries but she responds when I enforce them.”

“Boundaries and objectivity are two different things,” Kim reminded. “Is objectivity possible given your feelings?”

“When you come right down to it, I’m pulling for her – for all of my clients - to make breakthroughs,” Bridget said. “I suppose that means I’ve lost objectivity with all of them.”

“The delineation comes when you stand to gain from their progress,” Kim reminded her. “That’s something to seriously consider. What do you stand to gain?”

Bridget knew the answer but didn’t voice it.

“Your next session is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon?” Kim continued.

“Yes,” Bridget said. “I want to give it one more shot. See if she’s capable of really doing some work. Push her about her childhood and anger issues. And, of course, I need to be certain my objectivity is in place.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Kim said. “What’s your plan if it isn’t?”

“I will speak with my supervisor and have her re-assigned,” Bridget said, hoping in the deepest part of her soul that it wouldn’t come to that.

“How would you feel about that?” Kim asked, no doubt hearing the emotional residue in her words.

“Kim, I’m struggling with feeling like I’ve let her down,” Bridget managed. “By letting myself develop feelings.”

“I think it’s safe to say you didn’t see this coming, right?” Kim asked.

“Yeah, but –“ Bridget struggled to put words to what was in her soul. “It is my job, literally, to stay detached and I just… couldn’t… What if it’s not just with Fr – Corky?”

“Who else are you concerned about?”

“Well, nobody at present,” Bridget said. “It’s just that if it happened this time, it could conceivably happen again.”

“And you’ll deal with it when and if it does,” Kim said in a tone that was at once soothing and firm. “Don’t make this into a systemic problem if it isn’t.”

“Okay,” Bridget acquiesced. “Thanks, Kim.”

“Anytime,” the American said sweetly. “You’ll let me know how it goes?”

“Of course,” Bridget agreed. “Seriously, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Kim replied. “Tell Abby hello for me.”

Kim had flirted mercilessly with Abby ever since they met. Abby was more than 20 years her senior but she was remarkably beautiful and incredibly intelligent – irresistible to many over the years, including Bridget, briefly.

“Will do,” Bridget agreed. “She’ll be happy to hear you’re coming for a visit.”

“Hey, Bridge,” Kim said. “I’m glad you reached out. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Kim.”

Bridget hung up and took a few moments to absorb the call, taking another swig of mineral water. She sighed and glanced at her watch. 6:45. If she put a move on she could catch the 7:30 Hot Yoga class. A nearly masochistic workout felt like just the thing to right her ship. In her mind, Bridget struck a bargain, even as she rose from the couch and made her way down the hall.

_If Abby answers, we can talk tonight. If not, I’ll go to yoga and talk to her after my next session with Franky._

She found Abby’s number and pressed send as she slipped out of her jacket, headed toward her bedroom.

After three rings, voicemail picked up.

“It’s Abby O’Neill. Please leave a message,” the familiar voice sounded. Bridget let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Abs, it’s Bridget,” she said. “Hope you’re well. I wanted to talk – to catch up but also to discuss something. I’ll make dinner if you’re free tomorrow night. Give me a ring. Love you.”

Bridget laid her phone on the bed as she kept walking toward the closet. She was naked from the waist up when she reached the drawer that held her workout clothes. In less than a minute she was clad in spandex and, flip-flops in hand, she was walking toward the front door.

Yoga was a source not only of relaxation and centering; it was a wringing out of her body that she had grown to crave. Personally and professionally, she subscribed to the theory that the body manifests emotions and as her practice had developed it had help her uncover deeper pieces of her grief, both over Jyoti and her stepfather, both of whom had been lost within the past five years. She wondered whether it would also work to exorcise attraction.

* * *

Yoga had, indeed, done the trick - if for one night. The following morning, Bridget woke with a clear head and a mission to take on Franky Doyle.

“Bridget?” She would have known the voice anywhere but the blonde turned to see Franky. This was the first time the inmate had ever called her by her actual name and it took her a moment to recover from it.

The brunette had figured out her schedule and sometimes she would often simply appear in a corridor at the exact moment when Bridget was heading to lunch or grabbing a coffee from the staff lounge.

This morning, the younger woman’s intense face and serious tone left no doubt that this wasn’t a chance encounter. “That verbal abuse charge – the one that Ms. B dropped?”

“Mmm?” Bridget said, Franky falling into step with her.

“She’s threatening to reinstate it and fuck my parole.” Worry was etched all over the younger woman’s face and it raised Bridget’s defenses. She slowed to a stop. She couldn’t imagine by-the-books Vera threatening such a thing.

“I was a witness when she withdrew it,” Bridget said, shaking her head. She followed Franky’s gaze down the hall, Franky’s body on alert – fight or flight to be sure. Bridget leaned in slightly, trying to reassure. “I’d be a good look if she changes her mind.”

Bridget started off down the hall again, wishing to minimize her out-of-session interactions with Franky.

“Hey,“ Franky said as she caught Bridget gently, firmly by the arm, stopping the blonde’s exit.

The entire world closed in around Bridget Westfall as she was reduced to the feel of Franky Doyle’s hand on her arm, the junctures where skin met skin.

_Shhhhhiiiiitttttt._

“So you’ve got my back?” Franky asked, not letting go of her, peering at Bridget with the most openness and vulnerability she had ever seen the woman display. Franky was genuinely worried.

Bridget summoned her most reassuring smile, even as her heart and mind raced. “Yeah.” Apparently Bridget’s voice had gone where the rest of her soul and all the blood and energy within her had also gone: to the spot Franky was now touching. The younger woman’s close proximity was having the effect of sucking all the air from her lungs.

_Fuuuuuccccckkkkk._

Franky smiled, eyes a little glassy and Bridget noted that it showed a not insignificant measure of trust for Franky to ask such a thing.  It was meaningful, particularly to this woman who had been a loner for most of her life.

“Thanks,” Franky said in a similarly breathy, higher than normal tone. She meant it, Bridget knew.

Bridget smiled at her again, which drew a smile to Franky’s face. They gazed at each other and Bridget’s eyes grazed the other woman’s lips.

_Fuckin’ hell._

When Franky let go of her arm, it was all she could do not to reach for her hand again to prolong contact. Instead, Bridget turned and started back down the hall.

“Ms. Westfall,” Rose intercepted her and Bridget was thankful for the reprieve. She had 4 ½ hours in which to gain her composure, before Franky’s appointment. And she would need every moment of that.


	6. Truth Hangover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers through episode 3x07. If you’ve not watched the scene where Franky confesses, do yourself a favor and watch it. It’s two actors at the top of their game. I purposely hit points of the scene to explore what’s unsaid without attempting to transcribe the very perfect dialogue and performances.
> 
> Also, if you want some exquisite post-season 3 reading, check out literally everything by sticks_and_stones: http://archiveofourown.org/users/sticks_and_stones/. This series will eventually dovetail into her work.

In 20 years as a forensic psychologist, Bridget Westfall couldn’t recall ever feeling so angry on the job. Kim Chang’s exercise yard blitzkrieg of shouted accusations about her “fucking” Franky came on the heels of a maddening interaction with Governor Ferguson: a one-two punch that resulted in one seriously pissed off psychologist. As she entered the main prison building Bridget burned with embarrassment and anger.

How could Kim Chang have known? Bridget’s mind reeled trying to recall whether she, Kim and Franky had ever even been in the same space other than the unforgettable first time she met Kim. She was certain that Kim had been too distracted by Franky to notice Bridget’s reactions, which made Bridget wonder whether Franky had been foolish enough to say something to the hotheaded Asian inmate.

Bridget’s ire spiked at the possibility that she had misread Franky entirely. If the brunette had been careless enough to discuss the flirtation or whatever it was between them, Bridget had seriously misjudged Franky.

Regardless, it wouldn’t change what had happened. In front of Vera, and a good fifth of Bridget’s clients, no less.

_Fucking hell._

Bridget had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before her weekly D-wing group session that would be followed by _the_ appointment of the day with _the_ inmate in question. In all, Bridget had short time to marshal her feelings before facing Franky Doyle.

Bridget reached her office and closed the door, pulling her phone from her bag. Dexterous fingers quickly located the meditation podcast she thought might help. But even during the ten-minute oasis her mind refused to fully let go before her phone alarm buzzed signaling time for her to head to the education annex.

Later, when Franky turned up all smiles and Gidget’s, Bridget’s plan to push her client to get real about her emotional baggage and anger issues was amplified by her own still-simmering anger.

Bridget harbored no illusions that she was stretching the limits of professional decorum as she leapt headfirst into it, asking Franky what Kim Chang’s problem was. The brunette’s amused, cat-who-ate-the-canary response pushed Bridget further.

“This is your session. You asked for it.”

More words, tension, heat. 

Franky pushing back.

“You think you know what it’s like in here but you don’t.”

 _Defiance and denial – classic_ , Bridget noted in her mind, confirmation that she was reaching Franky. _Now we’re getting somewhere…_

Bridget made no effort to hide the irritation in her voice.

“You waste these sessions. There’s no point in having them. 

“Don’t you ever get bored of people chewing your ear off?”

As she consciously slowed her breathing, Bridget’s training kicked in. She summoned the calmest voice she could and pressed on. 

“You have a serious emotional block that prevents you from trusting anyone. Now, I get that but you’re gonna have to break through it.”

Then Franky’s face dissolved before her eyes and Bridget beheld, for the first time, the wounded, disbelieving, heartbroken girl who had been clinging to the inmate’s waist all these years, preventing her from moving forward, from growing up, from seeing the truth of the abuse she had suffered, not allowing herself to be absolved of responsibility unjustly heaped upon her.

It broke Bridget’s heart to see - hell, feel - the hurt that was so evident in this woman, but she knew she had the opportunity, the responsibility, to stay with her in it and ferry her safely through the mine-littered landscape of her past.

Bridget gave it a moment and softened her voice even more as they continued.

“It began when you were a kid, didn’t it.”

Statement. Acknowledgement. Permission.

_Go there with me, Franky. Come on._

Bridget pressed further. 

A flash of anger. 

_You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through._

Still, Bridget pressed on.

Emotion thickening Franky’s voice. _I won’t go there._

Bridget kept at it.

“I want to stop the session.”

Bridget didn’t stop.

And Franky was up, pacing, caged animal. Her hand slammed against the door and it was all Bridget could do to keep herself from exclaiming, _Yes! That’s it! Go there!_

Instead she squared her jaw and held the angry gaze of this woman who she had emotionally cornered.

“Let’s talk about the anger, Franky. That’s what’s driving you.”

Cool, calm, in control, even as she called Franky on a lack of that.

“I’m not a good person.”

“Yes you are.”

 _You don’t know me._ “You don’t know shit.”

“Oh yeah, well who have you killed?”

As Franky raised her arms above her head, Bridget understood that the words the woman had just cried out were both her triumph and defeat.

Bridget studied the sobbing face of Franky Doyle, watching for any word or action that would indicate that what she just said wasn’t so – that Bridget misheard, misunderstood. Instead she witnessed the very real heartbreak of one who has accidentally confessed the thing she regretted most in this world, the thing she had clung to most tightly. 

Bridget was aware of two responses going on within herself. The first was that her body was in full tilt fight or flight mode. She had no desire to flee from Franky, but rather to fight on her behalf, the instinct to literally protect this woman an undeniable, cellular phenomenon in her entire being. The second was her professional brain spinning, searching the rules about criminal confession during confidential therapy sessions. Usually it would have been at her fingertips but her own physiological response was overriding higher thought.

“It was an accident but I did it.”

“Alright, don’t say anything more. 

Bridget’s mind had, at last, recalled the rules and regulations she was bound by. Bridget knew she was on thin ice with her own professional ethics as she skirted an invisible line between her own feelings and her job.

Franky half-sobbed, half cried out in deep, desperate pain as she sank against the door, sliding onto the floor. Bridget’s heart felt like it would burst through her ribcage at any minute and she struggled to regulate it and her breath.

“If you go into detail I’ll have to report it.”

Franky drew her knees toward herself and cried out again in such pain.

Bridget had to physically grip her chair and will herself to stay seated. Every cell in her body was exploding, demanding that she cross the room and wrap her arms around this woman who just knocked down a castle-wall’s worth of trust issues in one moment of confession.

Bridget watched as the brunette struggled to calm herself, rubbing tears madly from her face, totally oblivious to the internal war within the blonde psychologist whose mind was reeling with the absolute fact that she was in love with Franky Doyle.

“So you still think I’m a good person do ya?”

Strangled voice. Deep pain, self-doubt, anticipation of rejection was all etched plainly on the younger woman’s face, inspiring a literal physical ache in Bridget’s chest. She had to get her own shit together – it was the only way she could do anything positive for the brunette who was wedged in a tiny ball in the corner of her office.

“I think you need to absorb what’s happened today.”

Franky’s face melted into a look of _Really?!_ Disappointment, fear, anger at herself for taking such a risk. Bridget could read each emotion wash over her face.

“You started to trust.”

Bridget forced as pleasant and neutral a look as she could muster given that the bulk of her mental and physical energy were focused squarely on keeping herself from flying across the room to embrace the woman whose openness and vulnerability gaped like a fresh wound. 

“That’s a big step.”

Franky looked like she could cry again as she shook her head, recognizing Bridget’s avoidance of her question. Fear and loss flooded Franky’s face and broke Bridget’s heart even more.

“It came at a price, though, hey?”

Bridget just looked at the woman, trying to will what she couldn’t say or do into Franky’s conscience. Bridget focused all her comforting energy at Franky who sat crumpled on the floor. She knew what Franky was feeling – regret was etched all over her face.

Bridget’s commitment to herself to maintain her professional ethics and crack the tough nut that was Franky Doyle, came at a cost for them both.  She watched reality wash over Franky. The younger woman shook her head, no doubt mentally chastising herself, failing to realize the enormity of the breakthrough she had just made; blind to the impact this moment had on Bridget and whatever it was between them. 

Bridget drew in a deep breath, allowing her eyes to shut for a moment.

_Get it together._

_For her sake._

She exhaled slowly then opened her eyes to meet the darkened gray ones that gazed at her from across the room.

 _Where the fuck to begin??_  

She didn’t trust her voice to not convey what she was feeling so she cleared her throat and just gazed at Franky for another moment. 

“Keeping something secret like that can exacerbate feelings of isolation. I would imagine you’ve felt very alone.”

Another hot, defeated tear ran down Franky’s cheek and the inmate looked away, casting her gaze down.

“You aren’t alone with it any more.”

Bridget waited long moments until Franky gathered herself enough to look up again. When she did, Bridget held her gaze solidly. This was the one comfort she could give. 

_I see you. I hear you. I'm here with you._

Bridget remained silent, breathing deeply, holding Franky’s gaze. Franky made no move from her huddled seat on the floor. They both dwelled in that silent connection for the longest time, for the duration of their session. Neither woman looked away from the other, the connection growing increasingly palpable as they remained present with one another. 

Eventually Bridget’s phone buzzed, startling them both with its warning: _two minutes, wrap it up_. Her eyes fell to the device, fingers quickly stopping the vibration. Just as quickly, she looked back up to find Franky moving slowly to rise. Bridget stood and restrained herself from taking the few steps across the room to help her.

Franky stretched. Her eyes seemed to follow a recreated path of her trajectory through the room, traveling from chair to door to floor, eventually landing back in the present moment. Finally, gray eyes met blue again.

Bridget summoned her kindest smile.

“You alright?” she asked, voice soft.

Franky gazed back at her, grappling for words. Finally she exhaled slowly. "Will be." The slight squaring of her jaw, slightest edge of defiance entering back into her gaze. “Always am.”

“Franky…”

The key card buzzed. Bridget swallowed hard against all that was unsaid as the door swung open, guard peering in at them, entirely unaware of what had transpired. “Take care,” Bridget managed, forcing a small smile.

Franky flashed a smile but it failed to reach her eyes. "See ya next time."

All Bridget could manage in response was a quick nod.

As Franky took her leave, Bridget remained riveted to the spot where she stood, watching the other woman depart. Then for the first time she let her own feelings uncork, sinking into her chair, unsure of what to do with her shaking hands, certain that Franky had no idea that their next session wouldn’t happen. 

* * *

Bridget felt defeated, raw.  The professional reserve she had so easily employed over the past two decades had never failed her until today.

She used the fifteen minutes between Franky’s appointment and the one that followed to draft an email to her supervisor requesting the transfer of Franky’s care to her colleague. She kept the memo short and sweet. Transference had entered into the client-therapist relationship and she thought it best to confer the client’s care. There were only four sessions left before the client's parole hearing anyhow. Richard had been her colleague, then supervisor, for most of the past two decades. He wouldn’t question her request. 

She pressed send and couldn’t help but feel like she failed the one person in the world who she had most wanted to help.

As she forced herself to breathe deeply, Bridget’s heart ached. She had two more appointments in the day and then dinner with Abby, her beloved mentor. There was no way she would escape the night without bearing her soul to her friend. That thought simultaneously inspired feelings of gratitude and deep reticence in the psychologist.

She managed her last two sessions and then set out to find Will Jackson to sign off on the group attendance records for the week, which were due to be turned in. As she made her way through the halls, anyone would have noticed that the blonde’s feisty swagger was decidedly absent. Instead her gait was slower, hips swayed less, determination all but gone. Her eyes scanned the women as she passed. She knew better than to believe she was doing anything other than looking for Franky.

At last she found Jackson and the two ducked into a private consultation room with glass walls. Jackson hurriedly signed the forms and, as Bridget looked up, she caught sight of the one woman she most wanted to see.

Bridget forced herself to not register the surprise on her face as she made eye contact. The sorrow and softness in Franky’s face broke Bridget’s heart more than it already was. And there was something more – worry. As she looked back down at the paperwork, Bridget’s mind reeled trying to decipher Franky’s reaction. And then it hit her: Meg Jackson had been Will’s wife.

_Oh fuck._

When she raised her eyes she sought Franky’s, arranging the calmest smile on her face. _I am not in here selling you out. Trust me._

Will said his goodbyes as she gathered her things. And as she rounded the corner closest to Franky, the brunette took a few steps toward her.

Bridget had expected a whopper of a truth hangover to have set in for Franky and she wasn’t wrong in her prediction. Remorse was written all over her face.

"I made that shit up."

Bridget nodded, complicit in the ruse.

_That smile..._

“Would you do this for any of the women?”

The truth escaped Bridget's heart in the slightest of head movements.

Then the entire world reduced to the feel of Franky’s fingers slipping between Bridget's and the leather attaché she carried. It was the most natural instinct in the world to respond, fingers clasping the inmate's as Franky’s face morphed into one of the most sincere gratitude and vulnerability.

Bridget wanted so many things in that moment. To tell Franky she was safe, she was heard, she was protected. She wanted desperately to wrap the younger woman in her arms but as she sensed the energy shift in Franky, who was clearly as lost in the moment as she was, reality came roaring back into Bridget's awareness, compelling her to go, lest anyone see the truth between them.

Bridget had no time to contemplate this fear as she turned and came face to face with Governor Ferguson.

 _Holy shit._  

She marshaled her best inquisitive face and followed Ferguson off in search of Bea Smith, feeling Franky’s eyes on her every step of the way.


	7. Educating Bridget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please see the standard disclaimers in chapter 1. Spoilers through episode 3x8. Tons of AU backstory here. Abby will figure heavily as this story progresses so bear with me. And sorry for the interminable delay between posts! I, too, am a fanfiction reader (huge fan of Sticks and Stones; if you haven't read her work, do it!) and I understand how it is to have a writer go AWOL midstream. Thanks for bearing with me. 
> 
> Also, I made some edits to chapter 6 so if you’re so inclined, enjoy it again!

If Bridget Westfall’s life were a movie the role of Abby O’Neill would be played by Helen Mirren. Even in her early 60’s, Abby was elegant, witty, stylish and in such great shape that most misjudged her age by a decade. 

When Bridget was in her Master’s degree program, Abby had been on a two-year teaching fellowship at University of New South Wales. Sparks had flown on the first day of Abby’s Professional and Ethical Practice seminar as the incredibly intelligent teacher and brightest student had tangled over subject after subject.

Respect had been present from the start, as had a palpable attraction on the part of both women. Lingering to talk after class turned into Bridget walking the older woman back to Abby’s campus office, which had turned into longer walks to a coffee shop just off campus. The two had discussed literally everything in their lives except the off-the-charts attraction between them.

The Friday after grades had been submitted for the semester, Bridget asked Abby out to dinner.  When Bridget went round to Abby’s apartment to pick her up, the then 40-something professor had answered the door wearing a knee-length flared indigo skirt that revealed gorgeously toned legs and sleeveless V-neck blouse with plunging neckline that highlighted delightful décolletage and leanly muscular arms. The look was a decided departure from the tailored pant suits Abby sported for class and the 20-something Bridget Westfall was robbed of her ability to speak.

Astonishment and desire plainly evident on Bridget’s face, Abby smiled radiantly.

“Well I guess that answers that question,” Abby had said, reaching for the stricken Bridget.  Abby’s fingers entwined with hers and she pulled the younger woman into her apartment. When Abby turned from shutting the door she was met with Bridget, mere inches away and closing the gap.

Bridget backed Abby against the door and kissed her– the hot, desperate kiss of a young lover who hasn’t yet learned the art of the slow burn.

They hadn’t left the house all weekend, preferring instead to make love countless times in countless configurations and make do with the contents of Abby’s kitchen as occasional sustenance. Ever the educator, Abby introduced the ecstasy of taking things slowly and after the first hours-long instruction, using Bridget’s body as her classroom, the younger woman was a convert to Abby’s immensely pleasurable methods. 

When Sunday afternoon began to fade into evening, Abby suggested they try the little bistro where they had intended to dine on Friday. They showered together – which, of course, delayed their departure. Then, over a delectable meal of perfectly prepared seafood and beautifully paired wine, Bridget was schooled in the art of open, honest communication with a lover.

“You’re delicious and delightful,” Abby had told her after they ordered coffee and tiramisu with two spoons. “Let’s enjoy this for what it is and make sure our friendship survives all this heat, dear heart.”

The admission had been a little heartbreaking but also freeing and, when they returned home with bellies sated, another round of lovemaking had proven to Bridget that deeper honesty led to more openness sexually.

Two hedonistic months later when Bridget was preparing to begin her external placement, the final step in her degree, she and Abby had agreed to make the transition from lovers to friends. There had been tears but both women knew it was the right thing to do. Each valued the relationship they had cultivated far beyond what the shelf life of their romance would have been. They loved each other deeply but they were not in love. The age difference, timing and trajectory of their lives also didn’t gel the way it would have needed to for them to pursue anything more.

The love affair had left Bridget with a full heart, delightful new sexual prowess, knowledge of her own body and its capacity for pleasure, emotional maturity, culinary skills and a budding yoga practice – all pieces that remained with Bridget to this day, thanks to Abby O’Neill. Thoughts of their now 20-year friendship were swirling in her head as Bridget walked up Argyle Street to the front door of Abby’s house. 

Abby had moved from Sydney to Melbourne a decade earlier, taking a teaching gig at the University of Melbourne shortly after Bridget and Jyoti had met. Abby’s sister and her family lived down in St. Kilda but Abby preferred city life so she chose a house in Fitzroy, which turned out to be less than two miles from Bridget’s place.

From the street, Abby’s home appeared to be two different houses: a one-story cottage beside a two-story modern. Inside, the two spaces had been opened and united into one bright and airy open, modern L-shaped living and dining area that flowed through retractable glass doors into a lush, sleek courtyard.

Inside, walls of original brick and bluestone were punctuated by white plaster and columns and wide-planked wood floors made the place flow seamlessly. The kitchen was modern, well appointed, tucked beyond sight until you rounded the corner of the L. A first floor bedroom, which had been turned into Abby’s study, and full bath were tucked to the right at the front of the house.

Stairs led up to a sunny master bedroom that overlooked the courtyard, complete with en suite and enormous walk-in wardrobe; two additional bedrooms and another bath. The courtyard included a patio area, small lawn and a two-lane, temperature-controlled lap pool that spanned from the back wall of the house to the back wall of the two-car enclosed garage that was topped with a studio apartment. The alley side of the garage was adorned with the street art for which this section of the city was famous.

Bridget adored the place and had felt at home since Abby’s first night there, when Bridget and Jyoti had delivered Chinese take-out to welcome her to town. This was Bridget’s dream house and she had teased Abby for years that when the stairs became too much for her, she should sell the place to her favorite former student.

“Better yet, we could swap,” Abby had countered the last time the subject arose. Abby held Bridget’s open, modern, one-level apartment with covered off-street parking, convenient elevator and its stunning fifth-story view in similar regard. The more Bridget thought about it, the more that scenario appealed to her.

As Bridget shifted both grocery bags to her left hand so she could open the low iron gate that separated Abby’s small front yard from the sidewalk, the front door opened and the beautiful, smiling face of Bridget’s beloved friend greeted her. Bridget returned the smile, closing the gate behind her, and took the few steps into Abby’s open arms.

She hadn’t planned on dissolving into tears but that’s what happened. Abby responded immediately, wordlessly, gently tightening her hold on Bridget, benediction for her to let go. After quiet sobs had subsided and she had begun to recover, Bridget loosened the embrace and pulled back slightly, wiping tears from her face with her one free hand.

“Helluva hello, eh?” she smiled at the kind eyes and face of this sweet friend. Abby’s fingers landed affectionately on Bridget’s cheekbone, gently tracing an arc down her jaw.

“We clearly have some catching up to do,” the older woman said, studying Bridget’s face with a mix of love and concern.

Moments later they stood unpacking the contents of grocery bags onto the island in Abby’s kitchen. Bridget didn’t often cook elaborate meals for herself, both due to time and the fact that she disliked having a fridge full of leftovers. But when she was feeding others, Bridget went all out finding comfort and delight in the process of preparing a meal.

Abby surveyed the ingredients: fresh clams, mussels, prawns and salmon, as well as fennel, onion, garlic, shallots, lemons, tomatoes and a frozen jar of homemade soup stock.

“Thought I’d whip up Chioppino,” Bridget announced. “How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Abby pronounced. “I’ll get us started with some wine.”

“Please,” Bridget smiled, exhaling deeply. She knew her friend would not push her to talk about what had her in tears, preferring that Bridget do so in her own time. Bridget offered up a silent thanks to the universe for Abby’s easy, loving way with her.

As Abby combed the selection in her wine fridge, Bridget pulled from her friend’s ample spice collection and gathered the various pots and pans she needed, marshaling her thoughts and emotions as she worked. When Abby returned with a bottle of Spanish Rosado, the older woman retrieved two glasses from the cabinet, maneuvering easily around Bridget, before slipping onto a stool on the opposite side of the island. 

“Will Claudia be joining us tonight?” Bridget asked.

“No,” Abby replied. “She has rehearsal for the new play.”

Abby’s partner of the past five years, Claudia, was a theatre director and professor at the university who had two grown children. She was often part of these dinners. Claudia’s daughter was now married and doing her own thing but her son, Edgar, who until recently lived in the apartment above Abby’s garage, occasionally joined them for dinner as well. But just as often Bridget had Abby to herself. Bridget was thankful this was one of those nights.

“You’ll let me know if I can help?” Abby stated more than asked as she uncorked the wine.

“Of course,” Bridget smiled. She preferred to fly solo and command the kitchen when she cooked. Since these dinners together had become routine over the past few years Abby knew this about her friend and so while Bridget cooked she steered a conversation of catch up about the minutiae they’d missed since their last meal.

After recounting her weekend jaunt to Sydney for the wedding of a friend’s daughter, Abby fell quiet for a moment – a pause long enough so that Bridget looked up to check on her.  When their eyes met, Abby’s face morphed from contemplation to a smile.

“Out with it, you,” Bridget prodded gently. “What’s up?”

“I have to have knee replacement surgery in a few months.”

Bridget held her gaze, “So soon?”

Abby’s knee had been increasingly sore and was now impacting her ability to roam the city at will. Bridget knew that would never do for the active, lively woman.

“Afraid so,” Abby continued.

“You seem reticent,” Bridget observed.

Abby smiled. “I am, but less about the surgery than what I’m about to ask you.”

Bridget’s mind kicked immediately into running scenarios. _Move in temporarily to help take care of her? Help convert the downstairs office back into a bedroom? Stay with her at the hospital? Take her to physical therapy?_ As soon as she realized she was doing it, Bridget shook her head, clearing her own thoughts, returning to the present to actually listen to her friend. She laid down her spoon and gave Abby her full attention.

“There is of course no obligation or pressure or anything,” Abby hedged, watching her carefully. “But if you have any interest in swapping homes, I’ve spoken about it with Claudia and we’re both in agreement that we’d love to do it.”

“Are you serious?” Bridget asked, maintaining Abby’s gaze.

“Yes,” Abby replied. “We’ve been playing around about it for years but it’s a great idea. I know we paid roughly the same for the two places so it’s an equitable swap.”

“Yes but yours has appreciated more, I think,” Bridget countered. “We should have them appraised to be sure the trade is fair.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Abby said. “You’re part of my family.”

Bridget made her way around the bench to her friend, wrapping her arms around her, saying, “And you’re mine.” They truly had crossed over into some beautiful zone far beyond friendship over the years. After a moment, Bridget pulled away so she could look Abby in the eye, hands on Abby’s shoulders.

“Claudia’s really okay with this?” Bridget adored Abby’s partner but knew she had very definite opinions.

“She loves the idea,” Abby brightened. “We have been putting off moving until Edgar was done with school.” Claudia’s son had graduated from university the previous spring. “Now that he’s moved out and into a place of his own, it un-complicates things,” Abby continued. “And of course this knee business is now at hand.”

Abby gazed at Bridget for a long moment. “I don’t want to rush you. We can find another place if you’re not ready. I know you bought your place with Jyoti and I’m sure your memories of her are tied to it.”

Abby was right, Bridget conceded, considering. “Thank you for thinking of that,” she said finally. “Since we never lived there together it’s a mixed bag. I mean we bought it and planned the reno together, but I also grieved her there. And having you living in that space somehow seems fitting. I know Jyoti would have loved the idea.”

Abby nodded, “I think she would have. For the pool if no other reason.”

Hot and exhausted after hours of unpacking, it had been Bridget’s dear departed partner, Jyoti, who, on Abby’s first night at the house suggested they dowse the courtyard lights and skinny-dip in order to cool off. The temperature-controlled saltwater pool was blissful and night swimming became a thing they did on evenings when Edgar was away.

“And you know how much I love this place,” Bridget smiled. “Let’s do it!” Bridget hugged her friend and mentor, kissing her affectionately on the cheek.

As Bridget finished cooking she couldn’t help but imagine that the kitchen was her own. It was laid out differently than the one in her flat. This was completely open to the living space – an aspect that Bridget loved about it. She also let her mind wander to the possibility of one day sharing the space with a new lover, particularly one with culinary inclinations…

It had been mere hours since Franky was officially no longer her client but it still felt like a betrayal of professional ethics and of the inmate for Bridget to fantasize this way. She shook her head, willing away the thought and trained her attention back on Abby. They worked out details of the appraisals, hiring an agent to broker the trade and a timeline of two months for the move so Abby could be settled before her surgery.

Bridget couldn’t help but think of Jyoti and of her father, Ray Westfall, and how the money she inherited from both when they passed away made this move and the ownership of such homes possible. She was so much more fortunate than most. Bridget’s salary would never have afforded either place and, while she wasn’t terribly invested in material goods, the ease of her life outside prison walls absolutely helped her to maintain her own mind, body and soul enough to really help the women with whom she worked.

By the time dinner was ready, Abby and Bridget had a plan and rough timeline agreed upon.

“I’m so glad that you’re open to this,” Abby delighted, carrying the wine and their glasses to the dining table.

“It feels right,” Bridget said following her, plates in hand. “Even the timing.”  
  
“Why is that?” Abby asked, setting their glasses down at their usual places at the table.

“I think I’m finally moving forward,” Bridget replied, voice weighted with emotion.

Abby’s hand landed gently on Bridget’s forearm. Tears welled in Bridget’s eyes. She was grateful again for Abby’s patience as she gathered her thoughts about where to begin. They took their seats and when she looked up at Abby a few tears escaped, rolling down her cheeks. Bridget laughed at herself, shaking her head.

“You know after Jyoti died and I survived the first year without her I stopped going to that bereaved spouses support group,” Bridget said, piercing a prawn with her fork, tacit permission for Abby to eat. After she finished chewing, satisfied at its flavor, Bridget continued. “Everyone in the group was either still mourning or they were moving on and I was in such limbo, as you know. And I’ve been in that place, pouring my energy and focus into work, friends, yoga, running, ever since. I’ve been on the few dates that you know about and a few women have piqued my curiosity but not enough to do anything about it. No one has resonated with me. And I’d begun to wonder whether anyone would again.”

Bridget took a drink of wine, eyes finding Abby’s again. “What Jyoti and I had was so deep, instantaneous, such an all-levels connection. I know that’s rare.”

“It is,” Abby agreed, nodding.

“Even my usually voracious sex drive has even been in hibernation,” Bridget smiled wryly at this woman who knew her so well. “But I’ve been fucking blindsided, Abby,” Bridget exhaled, relief immediate as she gave voice to truth, another tear escaping from the side of her eye. “By a client, an inmate. Former client, I should say.” 

Anyone else would have missed the slight creasing at the sides of Abby’s eyes as she took this in – the only thing that betrayed her surprise - but Bridget noticed. The younger woman’s hands rose to her own face, fingers fanning out across her forehead, thumbs wiping tears from her cheeks.

“This has never fucking happened to me before – not even close,” Bridget managed, breathing labored as she fought against sobs. “But I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried. The feelings I mean. Nothing has happened.” Then, with determination, “Nothing will happen. I mean it can’t.” _And after Franky realizes I’ve transferred her case to another psych, she likely won’t speak to me again,_ Bridget thought but did not say.

She used her napkin this time to wipe her cheeks, eyes finding Abby’s again. Abby reached across the table beckoning Bridget’s fingers with her own. They met and entwined and Bridget felt the older woman squeeze gently.

“It’s the clever one you mentioned, right?” Abby asked. Bridget nodded in response; not at all surprised that Abby had pieced it together from one conversation they’d had weeks ago.

“Tell me about her.”

Of course that’s where Abby would go first – not to the professional, to the personal.

Abby knew – and had taught Bridget and untold thousands of psych students – that there was no way most people could talk about another person without betraying the truth of their emotions in body language that was easy to read if you knew what to look for. Bridget knew this woman could see straight through her – there was no point in holding back. More than that, Bridget didn’t want to.

And so as they ate, Bridget told Abby every small detail from the first time she first laid eyes on Franky Doyle when she barreled into the group session looking for Boomer, to the session earlier in the day, skimming the details of Franky’s confession.

“Suffice it to say, if reported it would likely ruin any chance of her parole,” Bridget concluded. “So my day ended with a phone call from Richard who agreed that transferring her to the other psych was the right course of action.”

“What did you tell him?” Abby asked.

“The truth,” Bridget replied. “That there was transference, I suspect on both sides. That I’d be doing her a disservice to continue our sessions with such an obvious conflict of interest, that I would consult my own therapist to work through my part of it.”

Abby nodded, “You still seeing Lisa?” Lisa Donovan was also on the psych faculty at the university and maintained a small private practice comprised mostly of other psychologists.

“Not for a while,” Bridget admitted. “Seeing her next week, though.”

“That’s good,” Abby nodded. “To switch topics a moment - this is the best Chioppino I’ve ever eaten.”

“Thanks!” Bridget smiled. “You know I enjoy cooking for you. There’s plenty left for Claudia. Possibly enough for a second meal for you both.” Bridget took her last sip of wine. “I’ve been talking to Kim about the situation with Franky,” she added. “Informally, of course. Anonymously.”

Abby smiled. “How is she?” Abby and Bridget’s American friend had flirted long-distance and in person for the better part of two decades.

“She’s great – coming for a visit next month,” Bridget said. “She says hello.”

“What does she say about all of this?” Abby asked.

“She doesn’t know what happened today,” Bridget said. “She asked a lot of tough questions. The only one I failed to answer was what I stood to gain from Franky’s release.”  
  
Abby’s gaze was even, unassuming, kind as Bridget grappled for words. “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined what might happen when she’s paroled,” Bridget said at last. “The thing that I haven’t worked out is whether I’ve done anything self-serving in our sessions.”

“You’re welcome to talk through that with me, if you wish, or save it for Lisa and let me just be your friend,” Abby said.

“I don’t want to do that with you,” Bridget admitted. “But for another reason. I was wondering – when she gets paroled – “

“It’s a certain thing?” Abby questioned.

“I cannot imagine how or why she wouldn’t,” Bridget returned. “When she does, she’s going to need someone smart and strong to work with. I know you keep a light schedule of clients at St. Margaret’s – would you consider seeing her?”

Abby smiled, pausing. This wasn’t unusual for the thoughtful woman. “I understand that you want her to see someone experienced who will call her on her avoidance and continue to push her, while respecting her intelligence and independence, but I can’t be objective with her, particularly when she will, in all likelihood, talk about you.”

Bridget nodded, having considered that Abby would decline because of Bridget’s involvement. “I love you, Bridget,” Abby continued. “And if Franky might be part of your life I don’t want to get involved with her professionally. I will be open to her, though, as a friend. And I will make sure she is assigned to someone good at St. Margaret’s. You know Adina Omeo is now seeing some clients?”

“No,” Bridget brightened at the mention of the savvy woman who was nearly as well known as Abby in the field of forensic psychology.

“Yeah, so I’ll talk to her and see what I can do,” Abby continued.

“Thank you,” Bridget said, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I really appreciate it, Abby.”

“You’re welcome,” Abby smiled, her hand reaching for Bridget’s.

“I worry about how she’s going to handle being transferred to another psych,” Bridget admitted. “At Wentworth, I mean. It’s taken so long to build trust.”

“You have no control over how Franky handles another psych,” Abby reminded her. “And you are helping her by recusing yourself. You’ve lost objectivity. What is your plan to tell her? 

“She’s going to think it’s because of what she said in session today,” Bridget said. “I want to make it clear that it’s not. The incident with Kim in the yard has the rumor mill running – I can certainly justifiably cite that.”

“It’s in her best interest and yours,” Abby nodded, quietly considering Bridget as she held her gaze. ”You’ve said she can already read you. What will you say if she calls your bluff?”

“I don’t know,” Bridget admitted. “I do know that I have to be prepared for her to attack me verbally. I think she’ll be hurt more than angry. Feel betrayed. I know the protocol with transference - leaving the office door open, documenting everything. We have group in the morning and then I’ll request that she come to my office.”

“Where is she with regards to her parole hearing?” Abby asked.

“She submitted her forms and has a hearing date in two weeks,” Bridget said. “She has a job lined up and a place to live.” _With some woman called Rose Bellisario_ , Bridget thought but didn’t say. She wanted like hell to ask Franky who this Rose woman was but she knew her curiosity was way out of professional bounds. “But we haven’t talked through her statement to the board or the hearing procedure.”

“So, really, she has her act pretty much together,” Abby said. “And given that she’s been serving as lay legal aid to the others, I imagine she’s adept at expressing herself. So this transition of her care isn’t happening at the worst time.”

 _Any time would be the worst time_ , Bridget thought. She grew increasingly certain that cutting off sessions would be seen as betrayal or abandonment by the inmate, who had come to expect that she could count on no one in her life.

“True,” Bridget said. “I just… Want so much for her to figure out her shit and get out and get on with her life. Even if that life has nothing to do with me.” _And I want her to know I’m not abandoning her_.

“You care deeply for her,” Abby observed, eyeing Bridget carefully.

The blonde opened her mouth to speak but no words came. She simply nodded, tears again welling in her eyes.

_I fucking love her._

She couldn’t bring herself to give voice to that fact. Not yet.

***

“She’s screwing some skinny-ass scrag in fancy fuckin’ clothes.”

Bridget had been waiting for it ever since Kim walked into the library.  The psychologist was about to close the door and begin the group session when the inmate had slipped through, shooting her a look intended to wither. Bridget knew Kim had no good intention for being there. The young woman had an ocean’s worth of anger and issues that she hadn’t even begun to work through. Still, for the moment she was under Bridget’s care…

“Glad you decided to join us, Kim,” Bridget had greeted her sounding cheerful though her smile never quite reached her eyes.

Bridget was already in a calm and focused place. She’d set her alarm for earlier than usual so she could take a run and do a long meditation before work. She knew the conversation with Franky would be challenging and she wanted to center herself as much as possible before hand.

She had not anticipated Kim, though.

Bridget had even wondered whether Franky would even show up for group or if her truth hangover would keep her at bay. Bridget felt Franky’s presence before she turned her head, mid-conversation with Doreen, and saw the woman who had been swirling around her mind (among other places) almost constantly since their last interaction. Bridget caught Franky’s eye as she casually sauntered into the room, making her way to the back row, to what Bridget now considered to be Franky’s usual chair.

As she sat, Franky scanned the room purposefully before her eyes landed on Bridget’s. The quick flash of a soft smile was enough to convey that the inmate still had a bit of concern about their last session. But the tight nod of her chin punctuated the fact that she chose to show up anyway. Trust. Bridget returned her smile: a combination of authentic happiness restrained by some semblance of what professional decorum should look like when you were in love with someone quite unethically.

Franky’s smile widened barely, but enough for Bridget to notice, then the brunette’s eyes dipped down. The merest drop of Franky’s jaw and the younger woman’s smile was erased as it registered with the inmate what the psychologist was wearing. Franky swallowed hard.

Bridget had, in fact, selected her favorite black suit that morning.  She had stood naked, fresh from the shower, wet hair still cocooned in a towel, surveying her collection of shirts when the black on black, leather-trimmed shirt caught her eye. She had purchased it almost a year earlier in anticipation of a night of dancing and debauchery with Chad and Tony, her best gay guy friends. She tried it on at the store and felt, in that moment, sexy as hell for the first time since Jyoti’s death. She purchased it and it absolutely affected the same attitude when she wore it out with the guys. They had gone to The Peel, at Bridget’s request, the blonde preferring to dance with the nearly all-male crowd instead of negotiating the night with women who may or may not want something more than a few hours of fun on the dance floor.

She hadn’t worn the shirt since and it struck her that it might look great with the suit. Her hunch had been right, and black leather ankle boots completed a pretty damn great look. She felt confident, calm, centered and in control in that moment.

But that was a million miles away from how she felt now, standing in the library, watching Franky’s eyes darken in astonishment. _Fuck._

The heating system at Wentworth was notorious for keeping the place a little to hot or a little too cold and 30 minutes into her day Bridget had removed her suit jacket to mitigate the heat and not given it a second thought. Now, as Franky raked her eyes from Bridget’s chest and torso, back up to meet the blonde’s eyes, Bridget’s eyes darted back to Doreen. She felt a wave of heat rise from her chest. _I should’ve thought about it…_

Meanwhile Doreen continued to explain what she had read about the risks of post-partum depression in a seemingly endless preamble to some question for Bridget, showing no sign of having noticed that Bridget’s attention was completely wrecked by the woman who now sat at the back of the room. Franky, who was feigning boredom and tossing an occasional greeting as other women entered, all the while surreptitiously kept an eye on the blonde. Bridget could literally feel her gaze.

“So what do you think?” Doreen asked.

Bridget cleared her throat, willing the blush from her skin. “Why don’t you make an appointment and we can discuss this at length?” she suggested.

Doreen’s face brightened. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

Bridget nodded, “I’ll check my calendar after our session.”  Blue eyes checked the clock – one minute until they began.  Bridget greeted other women as she casually made her way to the door and to the inevitable interaction with Kim Chang.

And now, as the raucous laughter of some of the inmates swelled and receded Bridget thought, _Fucking hell._ She wasn’t even surprised that Chang had taken the opportunity to call out Franky and her but she was angry as hell.  Bridget drew in a long breath through her nose and her eyes darted to Franky’s. She felt the younger woman’s regret even as she saw it reflected in her face. As Bridget exhaled she knew this temporary embarrassment would actually make it easier for Franky to understand that the rumors about them had consequences.

As the noise died down, Bridget cleared the emotion from her throat. “Let me remind you that while you have some freedom of speech in these sessions, that ends when you target others.” She met Kim’s vicious eyes with a steely stare, at odds with the smile on her lips. “You can play by the rules or you can leave – your choice Kim. What’ll it be?”

“Oh, I’ll stay,” Kim said, puffing out her chest, high-fiving Boomer.

“Great. Boomer, you can take a seat,” Bridget instructed, still consciously breathing, letting go of her anger – professionalism kicking in.  Kim, too, started for the chairs.

“Hang on there, Kim,” Bridget said. “Your topic was ‘my first day of freedom.’” Bridget pulled an empty chair from the front row and placed it at the front of the room, gesturing for Kim to sit, aware of the irony of essentially having domain over this woman’s freedom all the while. The angry inmate flopped into the chair, arms crossed over her chest, a slight pout on her face. “Let’s get into that. You can start by defining freedom. What does it mean to you?”

As the energy of the group simmered back down to its normal level and the inmate grappled with her answer, Bridget’s eyes traveled around the room, an excuse to check on Franky who had shifted in her chair, eyes now boring a hole through Kim Chang. _I fucking dare you to say something more_ , was telegraphed all over Franky’s face. Between Bridget’s own outwardly unflappable calm and Franky’s ire, the psychologist suspected there was more than enough energy to keep Chang in line for the rest of the session.

It had been, in fact. And after an unusual amount of time spent in the hot seat defining what freedom was, Kim had taken her seat again amongst her peers and the session had continued without incident.

Franky had developed the habit of lingering behind after many group sessions to grab a quick exchange with Bridget. Today Franky was one of the first to slip out but not before catching Bridget’s eye once again with a look that Bridget interpreted as, _So we’re okay?_ Bridget summoned her most reassuring smile and quick nod before Liz neared, wanting to talk.

No point in foreshadowing to Franky the fact that no, they were not in fact okay.

_(to be continued - SOON)_


	8. Knowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wentworth” fanfiction. Fridget (Franky/Bridget) all the way. Adult language and situations. Spoilers through episode 3x8. Please see chapter 1 for disclaimers.
> 
> As I said a few chapters back, I’m loath to recap scenes in their entirety but these three (and the three that follow) had so much extraordinary subtext happening so I’m going there and inferring/interpreting some of the really fine performances by Nicole da Silva and Libby Tanner. 
> 
> Special thanks to Sticks and Stones, for her own divine fanfic (read it!) and for answering endless obscure questions about Melbourne. Any details I get right are directly a credit to her.

If Bridget had been unsure of her actions before she was certain now, as she closed the door to Governor Ferguson’s office behind her, that transferring Franky’s care to her colleague had been the right thing to do. Now that the rumors had reached the Governor, Ferguson held new influence over Franky and Bridget had no doubt that the stern, manipulative woman would use it to her advantage if she could.  

As she walked back to her own office Bridget processed her latest interaction with the increasingly unstable prison official, noting a few additions to her growing file on one Joan Ferguson. Leaving a pen on the compulsively ordered woman’s desk had been a deliberate act on Bridget’s part – a move meant to defy, to provoke, to remind Ferguson that Bridget was onto her and wasn’t playing her game.

She had a few minutes before her next client so when she got back to her office Bridget hastily printed a session slip. Client: _Francesca (Franky) Doyle._ PIN: _220247_. Unit: _H2_. Notes: _Please drop by this afternoon between 2 and 3:30, or make an appointment at your earliest convenience. It won’t take long. Thanks._ She noted the date, initialed it in the appropriate space and then took the slip up to the scheduling secretary, who smiled as she took it, promising to have it delivered.

Bridget wondered how Franky would react to the note – whether she would assume it was about Kim’s outburst in group or something else entirely. Bridget was both anxious to get the conversation over with and totally unnerved about the possibility – _hell, likelihood_ – of Franky being so upset by the transfer of her care to another psych that she would lash out or, worse, sabotage her own chance of getting parole. Bridget hoped the inmate would be reasonable or at least hear her out.

Bridget didn’t get that wish. As she gazed at the younger woman who had claimed Bridget’s usual chair, she watched confusion morph into disbelief and then rejection on Franky’s face.

“This is not about my interests,” Franky said, anger growing. “This isn’t even about the rumors.”

_Fuck._

“It’s about what I told you.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” Bridget exhaled, relieved that she wasn’t being called to task for her decidedly unprofessional feelings, but also concerned that Franky understand the truth of the situation.

“It’s got everything to do with that,” Franky countered, voice thickening with emotion. “You pushed and pushed for me to open up and now that I have you don’t know what the fuck to do with me.”

Hot anger belied a well of pain, abandonment and fear in Franky’s eyes.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , Bridget thought. She wasn’t prepared for how Franky’s pain would affect her. Professional reserve was quickly dissipating and, as she weighed in her head what to say that might convince Franky that her conclusion was wrong, Matt Fletcher’s sudden, jarring appearance at the door derailed her thoughts entirely.

The hulking man mumbled something about interrupting and offered to come back. Before Bridget could speak, she sensed motion from Franky.

“Nah - don’t worry about it,” Franky said, voice cracking, rising from her chair, staring straight at Bridget, arms outstretched – frustration, anger and utter defeat - eyes shining with unshed tears. “We’re done.”

Of course she’d throw Bridget’s words back at her; she was hurt. 

Bridget saw a single tear escape down Franky’s cheek as the younger woman walked out, slipping past the prison guard who was asking something about hypnosis.

_Shit._

Not at all how she’d hoped it would go, but it was also not entirely unexpected. The mighty ache in Bridget’s heart was unexpected, though. She fought back her own tears, exhaling deeply as she acknowledged how much it hurt her to hurt Franky. She wished like hell she were free to chase after Franky, to tell her the truth of how she felt – but there was Matt, confused and looking to her for answers. And of course, there was the whole matter of keeping her job…

Bridget swallowed hard and drew in a breath. She didn’t have the luxury of time to process her own feelings. It would have to wait, she realized, as Matt Fletcher took the chair opposite Bridget, looking to the blonde expectantly. 

* * *

That night Bridget subjected herself to a hot dynamic yoga class that was a hair’s breadth away from masochism. She had to exorcise some of the guilt, sorrow and frustration about Franky. At some point whilst folded over in pigeon pose, tears had started to stream from her face but, since she was already soaked in sweat, it hardly mattered. She focused on her breathing and let the tears come.

At the end of class Bridget sat on her mat, mopping off with a hand towel: drenched, wrung out and physically exhausted, her mind still rooted on one very beautiful inmate.  The yoga studio was in the same neighborhood as the home of her closest friends, Helen Stewart and Nikki Wade. She was overwhelmed with gratitude for the pair who had been so consistently there for her, including the first night when she was in a real state about this thing with Franky.

“You home?” she texted Helen. “I wanted to make a quick stop.”

“Hiya,” Helen replied almost instantly. “Yes! See you soon.”

Bridget drove three more blocks and pulled up in front of Flowers Vasette, slipping in just before they closed. Then, after subsequent stops at Blackhearts and Sparrows and Thomas Dux, for wine and noshes respectively, she started on the final leg of her journey laden with gifts of gratitude for her favorite couple.

In a few minutes more Bridget stood at the familiar front door of casa Stewart-Wade, awaiting a response to her knock. She was soon greeted with Helen’s smiling face. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” the blonde Scot asked, reaching for Bridget, pulling her into a warm hug.

“I’ve just left yoga,” Bridget warned but the Scot squeezed her tightly.

“I’m rather fond of a hot, sweaty woman,” Helen winked as she loosened the embrace. “Especially when they come bearing flowers…”

Bridget smiled. “Good thing!” They moved inside and down the hall toward the kitchen and great room where Nikki was reclining on the sofa.

“Hi, babes,” the tall, dark Brit greeted Bridget, standing. “Oooh, what’s all that?”

“Just a very small thank you for being such good friends to me,” Bridget smiled, depositing the bags on the dining table. Nikki came over to see what she’d brought.

Helen slipped her arm around Bridget’s waist, saying, “Our pleasure.”

“This looks delicious,” Nikki remarked as she unpacked the goodies. Bridget grabbed her half-drunk post-yoga water bottle which she’d stashed in with the rest. “Why don’t I plate up some cheese and crackers and we can have a glass of wine whilst we visit?” 

“You sure I’m not interrupting your evening?” Bridget asked.

 “You’re never an interruption," Nikki replied. "You two sit – I’ll be back in a jiff.”

The blondes did as they were instructed and, as they settled into the soft leather couch, Helen asked, “How are you?”

Apparently the look on Bridget’s face as she grappled for words was enough of an answer.

“So it’s Franky, then?” Helen stated more than asked. Of all the people in the world, Helen knew the specific purgatory in which Bridget presently found herself.

Bridget nodded, eyes cast down to her own hands, wondering how it was possible to still have so many tears as her eyes welled. She took a long drink from her now nearly-empty water bottle then looked back up into the kind eyes of her friend.

“I’m totally fucking in love with her,” Bridget exhaled.

She watched as Helen’s hands softly encased her own and, after a moment, she looked back up into her friend’s warm hazel eyes. Helen’s gaze held all the sympathy in the world. “Talk to me.”

As Nikki worked in the kitchen, Bridget filled Helen in on all that had transpired since their last conversation. As usual, when the tall brunette eventually returned bearing plates of food and glasses of wine, she joined the conversation effortlessly.

“So what’s next?” Nikki asked.

“Part of me is dying to track her down and explain,” Bridget said, finishing her post-workout bottle of water. “But I can’t… That would break every rule of professional decorum and make all of this worse for us both. I can’t act on this – physically or even verbally – not until she’s out. If ever.”

“So much easier said than done,” Helen smiled sympathetically, one hand reaching for Nikki’s.

“How did it work with you two?” Bridget asked.

A decade earlier when she met Helen and Nikki, she’d heard the story of how the couple met and fell in love. But given its new relevance to her situation, Bridget was anxious to have any insight or idea that might ease the overwhelming compulsion she felt to profess her love to Franky.

“The moment I resigned as governor I went and found Nikki,” Helen said. She had been the prison governor at the time and Nikki had been an inmate.

“It was the happiest moment I’d had in years,” Nikki smiled, remembering. “And also the worst. I had no idea how or when I’d see her again since she’d chucked her job.”

“Yes but you had already acknowledged your feelings for each other, right?” Bridget asked.

“I certainly had,” Nikki said. “But except for that first kiss, she followed the rules. But I knew. You know? I mean I knew she was in it too. Of course I had no idea whether anything would come of it.”

Bridget nodded. She knew she wouldn’t know for certain how Franky felt until the inmate was free – from prison, from the unfair power dynamic between them, free to choose Bridget from among all the women in the world who Franky could so easily be with. They would both have to be free to discuss their feelings and the possibilities therein. 

Bridget knew this could be mere prison distraction for Franky, an authority figure fetish – _a la Erica Davidson_. In her gut she felt like Franky and she both had feelings beyond mere lust but it had been so long since she had fallen for someone… The ambiguity coupled with the whole fact that until yesterday, Franky had been her client, left Bridget on very unsure footing. And of course there was no sign that Franky knew the truth of Bridget’s feelings beyond what the inmate had already called her on.

“I hope she knows,” Bridget wished aloud, holding her friend’s gaze. “That might help her understand why I turned her case over. But I have no idea. Nor do I have the luxury of being able to tell her how I feel. Professional standards and all.”

“The statute is what, a couple of years, right?” Helen asked. “Surely you won’t wait all that time.”

Bridget smiled wryly, thoughts of spontaneous combustion searing her mind. “It’s two years,” she nodded. “But I’m just focused on surviving her incarceration. After she’s free the consequences of anything that might happen are much less severe.”

She had already looked that bit up – a detail that escaped none of them.

* * * 

Franky’s voice pierced her like an arrow and she spun around, only to come face to face with the woman who had been constantly on her mind for the past 24 hours.

“Franky, what are you doing here?”

Defiance. Determined pleading.

 _Please… this is killing me_ , Bridget thought, hoping Franky could read in her face what she couldn’t allow her voice to say.

“Our appointments have been cancelled.” Then, to the guard ( _Joanna? Josephine? Jo-something - she couldn’t keep the guards’ names straight_ ), “You’ll have to take her back.”

Franky’s determined stare melted into one of hurt and what remained of Bridget’s professional façade dissolved.  She lingered longer than she should have but, hell, they were out in the open with Jo-whatever standing right there so Bridget held the brunette’s gaze, allowing her feelings to show. 

_Please, Franky. See me. See that this is hurting me too._

As she felt tears threaten Bridget dashed inside her office, closing the door behind her, leaning into the juncture where the walls met, solid wood between her and this woman who was literally coursing through Bridget’s veins, infiltrating her being with every beat of her heart. 

_What in fucking hell am I to do?_

Bridget knew she’d have to do or say something to make the situation clear to Franky.

She had an extra 15 minutes between appointments, owing to Matt Fletcher’s abrupt exit. She retrieved her cell phone and hastily texted Abby O’Neill.

“Need some advice. May I swing by tonight?”

She didn’t see Abby’s reply until a few hours later, when she returned to her office after a group session with D-block.

“Of course! We look forward to seeing you.”

* * *

The warm saltwater of the pool touched every pore of Bridget’s skin, bathing her in comfort and ease – welcome sensation after two days of having her heart and soul battered as she drew lines and boundaries between herself and Franky. 

When she had shown up at her mentor’s place, Abby and Claudia, Abby’s partner, had already set a place for her at the dinner table. After a feast of pasta, salad and wine, Bridget was slightly more relaxed but the pent up energy of having to fight her feelings still had her wound tightly.

“Why don’t you take a swim?” the older psychologist suggested as she carried plates from the dining table to the kitchen. 

Instantly Bridget knew that would help.

“We’ll clean up and join you in a bit,” Abby added.

The only illumination in the courtyard was the decorative up-lights on the row of foxtail palm trees that lined the far wall. Normally it wouldn’t have bothered Bridget a bit if there had been full floodlights – she was comfortable in her own skin and with nudity in general. But this night as she struggled to find a way forward for herself and for Franky, she was grateful for the cloak of darkness.

She shed her clothes, skin prickling in the cool evening air. Bridget could see steam rising from the surface of the heated pool, held by tiled walls that rose three feet above ground level, beckoning her into its warmth. She walked up two steps to the wide, flat top of the pool wall and hopped in. The two-lane lap pool spanned the depth of the courtyard, from the back wall of Abby’s house - soon to be Bridget’s - and the back wall of the garage, sloping from four feet deep at the steps to five feet at the garage end.

As she surfaced and drew breath the contrast between air and water began to sharpen her thoughts. Franky had missed the clues in Bridget’s face, in her body language. Bridget would have to spell out – _within reason_ – why she had ended their sessions without discussing her own feelings, which would be a further violation of professional conduct and could possibly be misinterpreted by the inmate as an open invitation to act on those feelings.

Bridget plunged under the water and as she swam the length of the pool she knew Abby could advise her better than anyone on what she could and could not say. She swam underwater laps until thoughts in general – and thoughts of Franky specifically (similarly naked, with Bridget in the pool, doing decidedly as athletic things to and with her) – receded, replacing heat of anticipation with the heat of exhausted arms, legs and lungs.

She surfaced, hands sweeping wet hair back from her face. When she got home she would take care of her own sexual needs in hopes of releasing some of that intensity too.

_I mean, why not…?_

Increasingly her thoughts of Franky had involved touching the captivating woman and never failed to leave Bridget aroused and aching for release. She broke the water’s surface and opened her eyes to find Abby and Claudia cozied up on a single lounge chair, wrapped in a blanket, glasses of wine partially consumed. A folded towel lay beside Bridget’s clothes on the adjacent chair.

Abby studied her as much as the dim light would allow.

“I feel your stare, Abby,” Bridget smiled.

Claudia laughed. “She can be intense, eh?”

“Yes,” Bridget exhaled. “That’s part of why we love her though.”

“Agreed,” Claudia smiled, closing her eyes, nestling into Abby’s shoulder.

“So, you gonna tell me?” Abby asked.

Bridget dipped beneath the surface again, just to warm up, hands scooping her hair back again. _Note to self: get a haircut._ She’d been thinking of getting it cut shoulder length for some time. 

She took a deep breath, hooked her elbows on the concrete decking of the pool, chin resting on her folded arms and she recounted her two most recent interactions with Franky.

“I can’t believe she doesn’t know just from the look on my face,” she concluded, dipping under the water again briefly to warm up. “I totally let my guard down in the hallway.”

“She may not trust what she sees,” Abby suggested. “Or know how to interpret it. Particularly given her history of abuse at the hands of those who supposedly cared for her.”

Claudia’s eyes had remained closed through the story and Bridget wondered whether she’d drifted off to sleep, so she was surprised when she spoke.

“Emotion is carried on the breath,” Claudia said. “And your voice is loaded with emotion. That may have clued her in.” Then, a declaration. “You’re totally in love with this girl.”

Bridget smiled wryly. Nothing escaped Claudia’s attention. Bridget exhaled, her inclination to deny. She needed to examine that…. _Avoidance._

“I am,” she finally admitted. This time she heard clearly what Claudia meant. Bridget’s voice was thick, deeper than usual and more breathy all at once.

“You can explain the phenomenon of transference,” Abby said after a long moment. “And not discuss your feelings. Explain it clinically. That’s certainly the root of the reason why you have turned her case over to someone else.”

“If Franky is as bright and curious as Bridge says,” Claudia countered, “And if she has any feelings at all – and how could she not with this gorgeous creature in the mix? - she’s going to ask questions.”

“You’re overestimating my charms, Claudia,” Bridget smiled. “But you’re dead on about Franky asking questions.”

“So the question then is can you answer or deflect Franky’s questions without discussing your own feelings?” Abby wondered.

Bridget had exactly zero confidence that she could do that but trying sure beat the hell out of the purgatory in which she and Franky now dwelled.

“You’ve said she’s respected you in the past when you’ve shut her down,” Claudia said. “Do you think this conversation will be an exception?”

“I have no idea,” Bridget admitted. “There’s a strong possibility I’ve triggered her rejection and abandonment issues.”

Bridget pondered Franky’s unbelievably cruel and unstable past, having been removed from her mother’s abuse only to be placed in a series of foster homes where, inevitably, something would happen and she would be returned to the system. Franky struck out on her own at 16 after passing her HSC’s with flying colors (two years early) and she had been on her own ever since.

“And it’s not just a negative reaction that I’m concerned about. It could be equally as – challenging – if she responds well.” Bridget had fantasized about that very scenario countless times, of Franky taking her right then and there in the kitchen, library, her office, the inmate’s cell… Lost in delicious, if forbidden, thoughts about fucking Franky, when Abby spoke it startled Bridget.

“Where do you plan to speak with her? And when?” Abby asked.

“There’s no way in the world I can justify calling her to my office again,” Bridget said. “Plus I’d have to leave the door open… And I’m not sure she’d come anyway. I don’t want a record of it. I need to catch her when she’s somewhere we can speak with some measure of privacy but out in a public space. There are two places that might happen – the library, where I hold several of the group meetings, and the kitchen after her shift. She’s always the last one out, or so she’s said.”

 _She enjoys the quiet and having a rare moment to herself_ , Bridget recalled from what Franky had told her. It had come up in one of their first sessions together. She had been trying to engage the inmate, to get her to open up, so she started with the more obvious topics including how Franky spent her time. She was a hard worker, both managing and working in the kitchen and working a shift on the cleaning crew. 

“Boredom and me don’t get on well,” Franky had told her. “So I keep on the go. Plus I can keep an eye on things.” The explanation belied the brunette’s solid work ethic and sense of responsibility, Bridget knew. But her jobs also afforded Franky some freedoms including the ability to move about the facility with a degree of autonomy within the scope of her work.

Franky had made expert use of that freedom in past weeks as her seemingly random encounters with the blonde psychologist had increased exponentially. Bridget now expected to see the resourceful inmate whenever she was moving about the building and she’d taken that for granted. Since their last encounter, much as she’d wanted to, she hadn’t seen Franky at all.

“Aren’t there cameras and guards in the kitchen?” Abby asked.

“There are only cameras at the kitchen entrances because of the heat,” Bridget replied. “And the guards just patrol the kitchen during a shift. No one is stationed there after the crew leaves, as I understand it.”

Abby nodded as Bridget dipped beneath the water again to warm herself. When she re-surfaced, Bridget asked, “Am I crazy to even consider doing this?” 

Abby pondered the question for a moment. “You’re not crazy, dear heart,” she said at last. “Love is meant to stretch us and teach us about ourselves.” Abby smiled at the younger blonde. “You’ve maintained your professional integrity, unsurprisingly. I have no doubt you’ll be able to say what you feel you need to stay while remaining within the bounds.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Bridget smiled. “I’m not so sure. She slips past my defenses fairly effortlessly.” 

“You’re a little undone about this one,” Claudia remarked. “So what’s she like?”

Bridget exhaled, pondering where to start. “I’ve never met anyone like her. Sharp as a tack, fiery, brilliant, beautiful, a survivor – tough as hell but with this soft side that is just… breathtaking.”

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for,” Abby smiled. “There it is.”

“What?” Bridget asked unable to contain her smile.

“That emotion,” Abby replied. “Why you love her. You’ve been in analytical mode when we’ve talked.”

“Well, sure,” Bridget agreed. “I’ve been trying like hell to salvage my professional integrity.”

“We’re your friends, Bridget,” Abby said. “Let’s shift firmly into friend mode, eh?”

Bridget’s smile widened, “Sure.” As if to punctuate the fact, using the strength of her arms she pulled herself up onto the pool wall. With one knee on the wall she, careful to avoid a full flash, pulled her other leg over the wall and stood, padding stark naked over to where her clothes and towel lay. 

“I’ve been knocked for six by this one,” Bridget admitted, toweling off in the cold night air.

“I can tell,” Abby said. “And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m glad about it. Not in terms of what it’s meant for your job, but I’m glad for you – for your heart. It’s been a while. You deserve love.”

“Thank you,” Bridget smiled at them both, wrapping up fully in the towel. “It makes me so happy to see you two together like this.”

“We won’t have many more nights out here freezing our tits off by the pool,” Claudia said, referencing their impending house swap. 

“You’ll be welcome here anytime, you know,” Bridget insisted. “Abby’s gonna need to rehab that knee, too.”

“You may have a point,” Abby agreed. “And it’ll give us a chance to get to know Franky better.”

Abby was assuming a lot, Bridget thought, but the idea made her smile. “You’re gonna fucking love her.”

* * *

That night in the bedroom that would be hers for only another few months, Bridget let go. She embraced that the woman in her fantasies for the past few months, whose face she wouldn’t look at, whose name she wouldn’t cry out when she came over and over again, that the tats, limbs and olive skin, was and always had been Franky Doyle.

Her own fingers became Franky’s as she imagined clinging to the younger woman as she expertly fucked Bridget senseless. She imagined Franky’s rapt expression, lips and eyes mere inches away, sharing the same breath as she commanded _stay with me_ as Bridget fought the urge to close her eyes as another wave of orgasm rolled through her.

She did stay with Franky, eyes riveted to the gray orbs that seemed to see beyond her own. _Oh, Franky – Frah - fuck – God – Jesus_ , tumbled - part pant, part growl – from deep within the blonde as she shuddered, starving for the other woman’s lips. She was claimed, then, by a mouth hungry for her, starved in fact; devoured, while her body continued to throb, to pulse literally for Franky.

Bridget’s own wet fingers slid easily out of her drenched core and she rolled unceremoniously onto her back. She always thought that physical release would somehow ease the ache for the other woman’s touch, conveniently forgetting that it, in fact, made it so much more acute.

* * *

“You’ve got tickets on yourself if you think I’ve got the hots for ya.”

It felt to Bridget like Franky had punched her in the gut – all the air swiftly vacated her lungs as stinging tears sprung to her eyes. Arms folded over her chest had done nothing to steel Bridget for the impact of the denial.

“I was talking about me, Franky.”

She had never seen Franky thrown but this threw her. _What the fuck?_ gave way to _Uh…_ which morphed into utter disbelief. A shake of the brunette’s kerchiefed head, _no way..._ The inmate didn’t conceal anything, didn’t play at her response. Despite the fact that she still felt the aftereffects of the sucker-punch, Bridget was silently thrilled that Franky was reacting at all. She was engaging with her, honestly, and with a great measure of trust. Allowing herself to be unsure, particularly about feelings, was a big deal for Franky.

“So, what, you’re in love with me?”

That’s where Franky went… _To love…_ And in that moment Bridget knew for sure that it was love for them both. And then…

She couldn’t stop the small smile that invaded her face, even as she shook her head and determined that she could not say yes. 

“No...”

Bridget wondered where her voice had gone as she exhaled the word, a world of emotion in its single syllable. She couldn’t go there with Franky – not yet. No was a flat-out lie.

_See through it, Franky… Hear the truth in my voice._

She willed her emotions to travel into the inmate’s consciousness (in case this was possible), for her to read the breathlessness and husk in her voice as exactly what it was: raw, unbridled desire - even as she watched Franky grapple for the truth.

And then a new thought came to the inmate and the joy of having an answer washed over her face. Familiar territory again. 

“So you just want to fuck me?”

_Oh my God… She has no idea that I could actually be in love with her… Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course that’s where she goes. It’s all she expects. Fuck… That’s not fucking it, Franky. Can’t you see?!_

It took every ounce of energy and self-control within her to not speak, to not use her words, her hands, her mouth to show Franky exactly how much she was in love with her. Bridget felt like she could cry in frustration and she was letting all of it show on her face though – hell, she had no choice.

 _Fucking read me, Franky._  

And then Franky started toward her, eyes never leaving Bridget’s, as Franky’s amusement transformed with each step to one first of sympathy – _poor thing, don’t know what to do with flat out desire, eh?_ – Franky was familiar with being wanted; to one of predatory desire. Franky knew how to play that and her confidence returned at once.

She slipped easily into the scant space between the blonde and the kitchen work bench, most definitely in what would be considered by any definition to be Bridget’s personal space. Bridget shifted back just barely so they wouldn’t actually touch because if that happened right then she was sure she would lose control entirely.

Bridget exhaled audibly, crossing her arms more tightly against her chest, fighting every instinct within her to close the distance between them and kiss the gorgeous creature who now stood inches away. Franky’s closeness was both the most unbearable torture and the most unexpected comfort.

The energy between them shifted and settled around the new proximity of their bodies. Franky couldn’t not feel the heated connection between them, Bridget thought; she couldn’t miss the off-the-charts magnetic draw. Bridget’s eyes danced down to Franky’s lips, the very ones she had imagined kissing her, fucking her, last night as she lay alone in her bed. Then Franky did that thing with her bottom lip, puffing it out a bit, and Bridget went up in flames yet again.

“I can live with that.”

That broke Bridget’s heart most of all: that this incredible woman expected that an object, a beautiful body was all she could be to someone, to Bridget. The psychologist committed the details of Franky’s face to her memory, glassy eyes roaming olive skin and landing back on eyes that seemed surprisingly dark, nearly navy blue. She had no idea if and when she would be this close to Franky again. Bridget inhaled, savoring the particular scent of the brunette – trace of perfume and something that was inherent to the woman’s essence.

“I can’t.”

Bridget’s voice betrayed her entirely, heartbreak thick and obvious. She hoped it stayed with Franky and that the younger woman eventually translated into what it was.

Bridget watched as Franky’s eyes hungrily devoured her face, granting her time and presence to do so. Franky’s gaze dropped down to Bridget’s lips before meandering back up to meet the blonde’s own look of longing. 

Bridget held her gaze for a moment, and continued as she took the first few steps of her exit. Walking away from Franky felt wrong in every way. The physical, emotional and spiritual desire to stay was one of the strongest Bridget ever felt. And yet she had to do this – because she loved Franky, because she wanted them to have a shot at – _something…_ – when the inmate was released. So she forced herself to take another step and then another, the heels of her boots unnaturally loud on the tile floors. 

“What are you afraid of?”

Franky’s voice caught her short.

_I’m not afraid of this! I’m not afraid of you! I’m afraid that once we start I won’t be able to stop. That I’ll spread you out on stainless steel and devour you right here and now. Fuck, Franky!_

Bridget’s heart was screaming and for a moment she wavered, but she knew she could not throw this away – couldn’t throw them away – for one moment.

And so she did one of the most difficult things she’d ever done – she kept walking. She knew Franky was either incredibly hurt or incredibly angry in her wake. Either way, she couldn’t remain. 

As she came to the end of the corridor, her hand met cold metal as she pushed the door open. It whooshed closed behind her, sealing with a soft thunk, and only then did she stop fighting her own tears. They streamed down her face, a cacophony of joy and sorrow, fear and certainty, for the known and the yet unknowable.

A sob escaped from deep within her chest and she knew she had to get her shit together before she made her way back to her office. She followed signs to an exit door and used her swipe card to open it. Suddenly, daylight. She was on a loading dock.

Bridget glanced around, eyes adjusting to the brightness. Giant trash bins, wooden shipping pallets stacked against a cinder block wall. She was alone. And so she let go and sobbed, letting hot tears fall. She felt a wave of relief. Now Franky at least knew why she had been reassigned. She hoped Franky would also have some idea how Bridget felt – _that_ she felt – and perhaps that the inmate would, in hindsight, also really hear and understand what Bridget didn’t say – the emotion that was carried on her breath, in her voice, in her body.

After long moments, her sobs subsided and the tears soon followed. She sniffled, thumbs squeegeeing her wet cheeks and then movement caught the corner of her eye. She looked up to find Bea Smith standing there, mouth slightly agape, holding two filled canvas bags.

Bridget sniffled. “Hey, Bea,” she managed. “Sorry, I…” Bridget had no idea what to say.

“S’okay,” the redhead smiled sympathetically. She opened one of the bin doors and Bridget saw similar canvas bags inside. _Ahh, laundry._

Bridget took advantage of the inmate’s back being turned and wiped her cheeks again, drawing in a deep breath, collecting herself. Bea tossed her two loads in and closed the door, turning back to Bridget, hands on her hips. 

The inmate’s head tilted to the side and she ducked her eyes down to Bridget’s feet before meeting them again, a softness where Bridget usually found stone. Bea opened her mouth as if to speak but nothing came out. Instead she reached out, left hand landing on Bridget’s left arm, squeezing lightly.

A tight nod and tuck of the chin and Bea disappeared back into the metal door a few feet to the right of the one Bridget had emerged from.

 _Alright then…_ the blonde thought, wondering if the intelligent top dog had some idea of what was going on.

Bridget would have had no way of knowing how Bea, indeed, suspected there was something significant between the psychologist and Bea’s chief rival. Bridget would have no way of knowing that Bea and Franky had reached an understanding of sorts, an odd sort of camaraderie, and that Smith wanted Franky’s parole, her happiness.

Bridget would have no way of knowing that night, just before she went to bed, Bea would appear briefly at Franky’s cell door to ask if the brunette was alright. And, upon Franky’s response of _yeah…_ (the _fuck off_ implied but unspoken), Bea would say she was only asking since she’d discovered Bridget on the loading dock sobbing just after lunch. 

Bridget would have no way of knowing that Franky’s face - concerned, soft, worried – would confirm everything Bea suspected. Nor that Franky would lay awake for much of the night thinking of the blonde, worrying that she was upset, wondering if what she thought might be love – _like, LOVE love_ – was as real for Bridget as it was for her (she kind of thought it might be more to it than sex – _could that fucking be so?!_ ). That just in case it was, Franky vowed that night to give it a real go with the new psych, to try to work through her shit so if she ever got the chance to give it a go with Bridget, she’d be ready.

And there was no way that Bridget could know that the five-word exchange with Bea Smith on the loading dock on a sunny, cold afternoon would – much later – lead Bea to seek out the psychologist, the real human behind the nameplate on the door – to begin to sort out her own very painful heart.


	9. Educating Franky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wentworth” fanfiction. Fridget (Franky/Bridget) all the way. Adult language and situations. Spoilers through episode 3x9. Please see chapter one for disclaimers. Michael Beckett is my creation. Tara Brach is not; she's very real and very awesome. Also, this is now a 12-chapter fic.

Franky Doyle was no stranger to the protection unit at Wentworth Prison. She regularly volunteered to take the meal cart to admissions, medical and the Protection Units. She had to be accompanied by a Protection Unit guard at all times when she was on the wing but when each cell door was opened she was free to interact with the women inside.

Over the year and a half in which she’d visited the unit she had developed rapport with the guards and many of the inmates, including Jacs Holt. They weren’t what anyone would describe as friendly but they had history and on Franky’s several-times-a-week lunch rounds the two exchanged barbs and news of other inmates as the brunette dropped off the older woman’s meals.

But as she was buzzed into the unit this time, Franky felt a little nervous. The guard on duty at the door looked up at her. 

“I’m here to see Dr. Beckett,” Franky said after a long expectant gaze.

“Oh?” the guard replied, one eyebrow raised. As the woman typed something into the computer, Franky’s eyes found her nametag: Wanda Holt. “So you do. Huh. Have a seat. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Franky glanced behind herself and found two plain gray chairs she had never noticed before lined up against the wall. She took a few steps and then took a seat.

“Francesca Doyle is here for her appointment,” the guard said into the phone. “Right.” She hung up and glanced up. “He’ll be out to fetch you shortly.”

Franky nodded once, then thought to say, “Thanks, Miss Holt.”

Franky never had to wait to see Bridget. _Of course that’s where my brain goes…_ A guard always escorted Franky to Bridget’s office in the administration building so the blonde had to wait for her. Franky hadn’t anticipated that this new bloke would be any different. 

She felt her own tension rising at the prospect of having to discuss her feelings with this new stranger. Franky longed to talk to Bridget again. She had so much to tell the blonde, so much she’d thought through and realized since their last session.

More than anything she wanted to lay eyes on Bridget to see for herself whether or not the blonde was alright - particularly after Bea said she saw Bridget crying. Franky was burning with the urge to ask whether Bridget was lying when she said she wasn’t in love with her, to find out whether she missed their interactions and conversations. Not that Franky would even know how to go about asking such things... Not when the answers meant so much. Not when the answers meant everything.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that the sudden appearance of a man startled her. Whatever Franky had been expecting, this guy wasn’t it. Wiry salt and pepper hair was spiked a bit on top and a bushy beard protruded from his jaw. Round cheekbones propped up rims of black, round-rimmed glasses and warm brown eyes shone improbably with a smile. There was a youthfulness to his energy that was at odds with a slightly pudgy late-40’s/early 50’s male physique.

When he spoke, his voice was soft and a bit higher pitched than she would have guessed. “Good afternoon, Ms. Doyle. May I call you Franky?”

Franky rose, “Yes, thanks.” Her eyes fell to his outstretched hand and she shook it. He gave it a quick squeeze before releasing it.

“I’m Michael Beckett,” he continued, adjusting his bowtie in a way that made Franky knew he didn’t enjoy wearing it. “My office is just this way.”

They made their way down the main hallway. A few doors down on the left, he gestured to an open door. She had passed it many times but never noticed it. Bands of frosted glass wrapped a wall of windows that looked out into the corridor. One would have to peer through the quarter inch clear stripes between the bands in order to see into the room.

As she stepped through the threshold, Franky’s first thought was that it wasn’t as nice as Bridget’s office, not as warm. But perhaps that had more to do with the inhabitant of the other office. Two deep orange armchairs sat on one side of a black desk – nearly identical layout from Bridget’s office, though this space might have been slightly smaller; same window, same row of low file cabinets against one wall. No hot blonde…

The psychologist closed the door behind them and said, “Please, have a seat.”

Franky automatically moved to sit in the chair closest to the desk – the position that was Bridget’s chair in the other office.  She looked up and the bearded fellow smiled at Franky again as he retrieved a notepad from his desk. “I appreciate you coming to see me over in this part of the world,” he said.

“No sweat, doc,” she smiled. Franky knew from the printout of her appointment slip that he was some sort of doctor.

“I prefer to keep things informal so you are welcome to call me Michael,” he said taking the chair opposite her. She nodded approvingly at the informality.

“I’ve read your file and of course I’ve spoken with Bridget Westfall,” he said. Franky scoffed at herself for the jolt of excitement that surged through her at the mention of the blonde’s name. _Smooth, Doyle._ The momentary buzz quickly gave way to anxiety. _What had Bridget told him?_

“It seems you’re well on your way to a parole hearing,” he continued. “Your paperwork is filed and you need a few more sessions to satisfy the counseling requirements. Maybe work through your statement to the board.” She nodded, though he wasn’t asking a question. “But if you’re open to it I’d prefer to spend this session getting to know you a bit. Delve a little deeper into elements of your life and well-being.”

Franky swallowed hard wondering what the fuck that entailed.

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself,” he suggested, smiling warmly.

 _Former top dog, former dealer, dyke with a serious case of the hots for her former shrink_ , she thought, a sly smile invading her lips. “Well, uh, I run the kitchen,” she said instead. “Was a chef before – but you probably know that since the incident that landed me here - the accident - what I did that landed me here happened whilst I was taping a nationally televised cooking show.”

 _Fuck…_ Speaking the truth stung.Franky wondered whether it ever got easier. All mirth was now gone and she swallowed hard before meeting his gaze again.

“My kitchen work sometimes includes delivering meals in this unit,” she continued, sticking to safety.

“Oh, right then,” Michael nodded. “So you’ve been in this wing before.”

“And I work a shift mopping floors,” she added. “I like to stay busy.” She expected him to say something, ask something, but nothing came. _What else? “_ I’ve earned my legal studies degree since I’ve been here.” 

After a long moment, Michael said, “I understand you help other inmates with their appeals and other legal paperwork, help them prep for hearings and the like.” 

“I do what I can,” she nodded. 

“So that’s a bit about what you do,” he said. “Tell me more about who you are.”

Franky thought for a minute. She had no idea what to say. And then she realized she had tears in her eyes. _For fuck’s sake…_ And then she was crying, hot streams spilling down her cheeks. _What the hell…_  

As she rolled her eyes at her own emotional state she noticed that Michael’s gaze remained even. She forced herself to regain eye contact, determined to not fall apart in front of the stranger. In a calm, easy way he retrieved a box of tissues from his desk and placed it on the side table that sat between their chairs.

She took a tissue, wiping her cheeks. She still had no idea what to say.

“We just met,” Michael acknowledged. “And I don’t expect to just snap my fingers and have you trust me but you’re welcome to talk about anything. Everything is confidential and since we’ll be spending at least three hours together we might as well make the conversations beneficial to you, continue the work you were doing with Bridget.”

Franky wiped her nose and nodded. She tried to breathe deeply which hurt for some reason. Her lungs were tight, as were her abs, she realized. Her mind was racing and she felt the sudden urge to run screaming from the room. She closed her eyes again.

_Not something you want this bloke to see, you losing your shit over a simple question. Get it together, Franky._

For some reason a breathing trick she learned in one of Bridget’s group sessions came to mind. She had no better options so she began to breathe in for a count of three, then out for a count of three; breathe in for a count of four, then out for a count of four. A handful of breath cycles later she was already starting to feel better. She finished a seven-count exhalation and opened her eyes again.

Michael was still there, gazing at her with calm interest. She was grateful to find no trace of mockery, judgment nor resentment in him.

“I’ve spent a long time being angry,” Franky said before she could think, her voice still choked and tight. “I still am… or at least I still have shit to come to terms with.” She studied his face for a reaction to the curse word. Finding nothing more than patient, attentive calm, she continued, “But part of me is totally fucking unsure of who I’ll be without the anger…”

“An angry person may be part of who you are,” Michael said evenly. “But just from what I can tell from your file you are also a hard worker, someone who helps others, a leader among your peers, a friend, a daughter. The anger is something that may have colored the rest of those things but it isn’t the sum total.”

This brought a fresh wave of tears. For the second time in as many weeks someone, a qualified professional trained to deal with people and the darkest corners of their psyches, was telling her this. Franky looked down at the tissue clutched in her hands. Her throat remained tight and she felt the precipice where she was: to trust or not to trust, that was the question.

Then she thought of Bridget – blue eyes, radiant smile. The mere idea of the blonde flooded Franky’s senses with some foreign optimism about the future, improbable as it seemed. Bridget’s words, _I was talking about me, Franky_ , looped in her head. The breathlessness of the admission, the intensity of her gaze, the off-the-charts magnetic draw she felt toward the woman. Heady stuff, to be sure.

Unbidden, a quote Bridget mentioned in one of their sessions drifted into Franky’s mind.

“’And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom, _’_ ” Bridget had recited. “Have you heard that one before?”

“No,” Franky replied, wishing the blonde would recite more. “What’s it from?”

“It’s a quote from Anaïs Nin,” Bridget smiled as Franky’s eyebrow arched at the name. “Probably her most famous one. From a novel called _Children of the Albatross_.”

“I’ve heard of her erotic works,” Franky said, studying the blonde’s face for a response. “But I’ve never read her. You a fan of the kinky stuff, Gidge?” Franky asked, thinking she bloody well knew the answer to that question already, but happy to switch from their previous topic of discussion - trusting in others - and onto any fucking other thing in the world.

At their next session Bridget had proffered an older, well-worn hardback copy of _Cities of the Interior_. “ _Children of the Albatross_ is one of five novels in an arc that were combined into one publication. You’re welcome to borrow it if you wish,” Bridget had said as she handed it to Franky. The brunette took it, inexplicably happy to hold in her hands something tangible that belonged to the blonde.

Franky’s eyes raked over the cover. Dark blue ink revealed abstract figures of two women and one ghostly form that was shaped roughly like them intertwined with tree branches on a gray cover. Outlined letters spelled out the title in the background, beyond the branches. 

“Thanks, Gidge,” Franky had said as nonchalantly as she could manage, all the while fighting a smile at the happiness she felt from this gesture. To deflect this she had gone cheeky, saying, “Bit of an unusual cover, eh? Looks like a find from a bargain bin at the Feminist Women’s Bookstore, but I’ll give it a go.”

Bridget burbled forth with laughter at that, which was exactly what Franky intended. It had become her mission during sessions to get the blonde to laugh as often as possible both because that meant the psychologist wasn’t pushing Franky to talk about her feelings and because _damn…_ Bridget’s laugh was like the most perfect high, surging through Franky’s veins with a delicious rush.

It wasn’t until she was back in her cell that night that Franky had a moment to truly pour over the book. It was then she noticed two things: inside the front cover there was an inscription, ‘Happy birthday, Bridget! Love, Abby.’ Franky wondered who the fuck Abby was and how exactly she loved Bridget. 

Then she noticed the post-it note bookmark tacked right at the first line of the quote Bridget mentioned in their previous session. But the thing that captured her attention was the scrawling script written in blue ink: _Franky_. The brunette’s fingertip went immediately to the “y” tracing its indelible mark on the paper.

When she became aware of her actions, how 12-year-old-with-a-crush she was behaving, Franky smiled and shook her head. _What the fuck ya doing, Doyle?_ She knew exactly what she was doing – all the signs were there, written in 40 foot neon letters. 

And that damn quote… _t_ _he day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom_. Opening _was_ a risk – a bloody giant one. The most enormous fucking risk Franky could imagine.

She returned to the present and realized Michael was staring at her, a look of patient anticipation in his twinkly brown eyes. And in that moment Franky Doyle inhaled through her nose, swallowed hard and felt a little like she was going to throw up. 

“I don’t know where to start,” she croaked in a strangled-sounding whisper. “I don’t… really know who I am… without the anger. I’ve been angry for so long and now… and I feel… lost in a way. Or at least uncertain of who I am and what I want beyond the fact that I don’t want to be here and I don’t want to be angry anymore.” She wiped her nose again as tears continued to fall.

_I mean I know I want to make love to Bridget Westfall for days on end… Hell, months, years... ‘Make love??’ Where the fuck did that come from??_

Michael was silent and for a moment and she feared she’d missed something he said. Or worse, that what she’d just thought about Bridget had somehow come out of her mouth. Franky held her breath until he spoke again.

“That’s a pretty profound place to start,” Michael said, his voice and face the perfect mix of respectful, calm and friendly. “Bridget didn’t tell me what you discussed in your last session but she said you’d made some breakthroughs and you didn’t have time to follow up, to work through it. So let’s get into this.”

Franky dabbed her eyes with a fresh tissue. She swallowed again and drew in a deep breath. She still felt a little like she’d puke but she exhaled and nodded. She would do this fucking unbearably hard thing because Bridget had helped her to understand that it was important. _And because Bridget Westfall wanted her._ By God, she owed it to the blonde to get her shit together in case there came a time – as unlikely as it was – when she might have a chance to be with Bridget.

Franky’s hands felt the edges of the chair arms, fingers raking across textured fabric. Then she thought of that thing that Bridget did, the little movement she made, rubbing her thumb across the pads of her index and middle fingers. The gesture had caught Franky’s attention from their second session together, the inmate’s mind spinning with possibilities of what it meant, if anything.

Laying in her cot that night she had mimicked the gesture and found, after many minutes, that the fingertip trick had a sort of soothing effect and really focused her mind too. She wondered if that’s what it did for Bridget. She would ask but then she might come off a bit stalkerish at having noticed the behavior - which the blonde might interpret as interest, which the blonde might use to her advantage. 

All of that was before… Before she’d known who and how Bridget was, before Franky tossed herself off a cliff by admitting she killed Meg Jackson, and it was certainly before she’d admitted to herself that she’d fallen head over fucking heels for the hot psychologist.

Her mind now back in the office of one Dr. Michael Beckett, Franky closed her eyes and imagined she was sitting in Bridget’s chair in Bridget’s office because somehow that made her feel a little less like she wanted to die, a little less like she was about to jump off another very high cliff into the unknown.

She opened her eyes and found Michael’s kind attention still focused on her. _Didn’t waiting for clients to spill their guts ever get old? According to Bridget, it did not._ She exhaled. _Bridget…_

It was time, Franky decided. And this bloke was as good as any to help her sort through her shit. “Want to start with my mom or my dad?” she asked, forcing herself to maintain eye contact, attempting a smile that never fully materialized. “Both are pretty fucking horrible scenarios.”

“Start wherever you wish, Franky,” he said.

Her first instinct was to demand he toss her a bone, give her some fucking place to start, but she kept her mouth shut and breathed instead. It was another trick she’d learned from Bridget in a group session about anger management: _the sacred pause_.

“Instead of reacting immediately, take a deep breath and count to ten,” the psychologist had instructed. It sounded pretty basic Franky thought at the time, but like nearly everything Bridget suggested, Franky gave it a go. She was more than a little surprised to find it worked and worked bloody well, as it turned out. Franky preferred to not think of her pauses as sacred though. She thought of them as profane. She even said that to Bridget at their next solo session after group, eliciting a fresh round of laughter from the woman.

 _Bridget…_ all thoughts led to her, it seemed.

Franky’s mind again returned to the moment, to Michael’s office, to Michael, who continued to gaze at her patiently. “My first memory of my mum is the first time she broke my arm,” Franky started. “I was two.”

* * *

A dozen tear-soaked tissues later Franky was shocked at many things: how quickly the hour had passed; how, with each admission of what had been done to her she felt a little lighter and, improbably, less like a victim; how each statement she uttered made the next a little easier to say; how Michael’s questions made her realize things she hadn’t known before – about what happened, how she reacted, how she felt, where she carried her pain – so many things she had never considered.

Michael never seemed shocked by her language nor by what she said. He listened and would ask straight forward questions when she struggled with what she wanted to say. He wasn’t Bridget… but because he wasn’t Bridget there was slightly less of a risk in telling him the awful truth of what had happened and how she felt about it. She was surprised to realize that he didn’t treat her differently even after she told him about some of the worst moments of her life.

“Bridget said you were smart and hard-working,” Michael said as the minute hand neared the hour mark on the wall clock. “You’ve certainly proved that today. How do you feel?”

Franky felt wrung-out and raw from the surprisingly bloody hard work it was to talk about her feelings but she managed a half smile and said, with a note of sarcasm, “Peachy.”

Michael returned a kind smile. “You’ve been through a lot – brought up a lot of really hard parts of your past. You can be proud of the work you’ve done today.” 

It seemed odd to be proud of herself, Franky thought, particularly for basically vomiting the darkness of her childhood in front of this man but she had to admit that she did feel better in a way, lighter.

“Since I’m only in to see clients once a week, I usually assign homework,” he continued. “You up for that?" 

Work was familiar. Work was something Franky knew well. Furthermore she knew she could do whatever it was and if it meant that she could “process” (as the two psychologists in her world called it) the considerable amount of baggage she was carrying and move forward in her life.

“Sure thing,” she replied. “What did you have in mind?”

Franky’s eyes followed as he stood and went around to the far side of his desk. He sat in his chair and opened a lower drawer. She wiped her runny nose as she watched him retrieve a small white box and a composition notebook. He set both on his desk before looking back up at her.

He opened the small box, asking, “You familiar with an iPod?” Franky nodded, recognizing it as the model that had come out around the time she went to prison, which made it older but still…

“This one is loaded with audio books and podcasts that I use with certain clients,” Michael explained. “I want you to listen to an hour-long podcast a day. He grabbed a notepad from his desk and wrote as he continued. There’s a psychologist and author called Tara Brach. She’s fairly firmly rooted in Buddhist tenets. I didn’t notice a notation of your religious preference in your file but if you believe in God or some higher power and you’re open to it, I think what she has to say might really resonate with you.” 

Franky’s relationship to God had its ups and downs but early years of Catholic school had stuck with her and in her darkest moments God was her go to, be it in prayer or in more of a _fucking seriously?_ sort of way. So she nodded, she’d give it a go.

“I want you to try them in a specific order, though,” Michael continued. “It’ll address specific elements we touched on today and sort of build, if you follow.”

“Sure,” she agreed.

“They’re pretty loaded with information and questions, meditation exercises so some people find it helpful to listen to one several times, to let it soak in,” Michael explained. He scrolled through the iPod menu as he continued to speak, occasionally scrawling something on the notepad.

“It’s got nothing to do with intelligence,” he continued. “If it did I’d just tell you to have at it. It’s more about application to your life, to your situation. And it’s not easy. It may stir up some difficult stuff. Just keep going – even when it gets hard. Keep listening. Just an hour a day. And then journal about it.” He placed the comp book close to her. “That’s for your journaling. What you write is for your eyes only – I won’t read it unless you want me to.”

Franky nodded again. “What if I want to do more than one hour. S’that okay?”

 “Sure, but don’t do too much,” Michael cautioned. “It’s a lot to take in. Give it time to really get into your brain, ya know?" 

“Sure,” she agreed.

“Everything you need’s in this box,” he said. “Charger, earbuds and all. I’ll write a note giving you permission to have this so none of the screws interferes. Is your cell private enough for you to feel safe in it?”

No place at Wentworth really felt safe, save for Bridget’s office. “Probably,” she replied. “Why?”

“Because for the meditation part, it’ll help if you are someplace quiet and safe,” he explained. “And private, preferably. Since it may bring up some things. Tell you what – there’s a private conference room right off reception on this wing. A tiny room and there is a window but you can sit with your back to it. The door locks. You would have to be let in and out but it’s very secure. I can grant you permission to use it if you’d like.”

“Okay,” she agreed again, curiosity piqued at what an audio podcast could possibly contain that would necessitate such extreme measures. “Thanks.”

Michael smiled. “Now, have you meditated before?”

“Nah,” she admitted. “Dated a girl once who was into that but…”

“There’s a podcast, Ten Minute Basic Meditation Practice, that will walk you through it,” he said. “Listen to that first. She’ll talk you through it – relaxing your body and mind. For many it’s difficult to turn down the chatter in your mind at first but just breathe through it and if your mind wanders, just be calm and patient and return to the meditation.”

Franky wasn’t entirely sure she got what he was saying but she nodded anyway. How hard could it be, really?

Michael laid down his pen, pulled the page from his notepad and handed it to Franky. While he went about re-boxing the iPod, she read what he’d written:

“One podcast per day, in this order:

  *       Loving Yourself into Freedom
  *       Self-Compassion
  *       Trusting Ourselves, Trusting Life
  *       Three Liberating Gifts: Forgiveness
  *       Three Liberating Gifts: Inner Fire
  *       Three Liberating Gifts: Looking in the Mirror
  *       Learning to Respond, Not React"



_Fuck me…_ Franky swallowed hard.

* * * 

That night after lockdown Franky lay in her bunk, cell door closed. She still felt exhausted from her session earlier in the day, jagged around the edges from all of the emotions, almost like she was getting a cold. Unbidden, her thoughts turned to Bridget as they did so often these days. She imagined the blonde laying in her arms, the smaller woman’s mane of hair loose as her head nestled into Franky’s shoulder, a lean muscular leg thrown over Franky’s thigh, knee resting between the inmate’s. 

When she closed her eyes she could feel the warmth, weight and softness of the woman she wanted so badly to see. She inhaled and imagined Bridget’s scent filling her nose. Franky sighed; the mere imagined Bridget a comfort somehow. After a few moments she opened her eyes and wondered if Bridget ever thought about laying with her… _Or doing other decidedly more intimate things…_

Franky wasn’t prone to fantasy. Sure, she’d imagined various women as she brought herself to climax but she never dwelled on the possibility of anyone, the details of them, particularly on the idea of whether or not they ever thought of her or felt anything for her. She didn’t usually give two fucks. But that had all changed with one Bridget Westfall. 

Franky sighed, unused to the feeling in her chest – hollow, achy, needful. She needed to see Bridget and that thought both pissed her off and brought exquisitely tender tears to her eyes.

_Fuck…_

She sat up swinging her feet to the ground and breathed deeply, willing the tears to stay where they were. She’d cried enough for one day. Her eyes roamed the space and eventually landed on her desk and a white box and notebook that had been added to it earlier that afternoon. She retrieved the iPod and earbuds from the box. It was fully charged, she was happy to realize, and as she scrolled through the various audio files she was stricken how nearly every title made her stomach ache a bit.

Franky swallowed hard. She had a feeling this homework assignment would be as fucking difficult as the session had been. But ten minute meditation sounded benign enough. She found the audio file and pressed play, settling back down on her cot.

It took her a few minutes to really adjust to the American psychologist’s voice and dialect, to the distinctive whistle of her s’s but in short time it sounded familiar enough as this Tara Brach began to instruct her.

Breathing she could do. Particularly when such a lovely calm voice was telling her how to do it. She didn’t really know what a _quality of presence_ was, nor a _quality of here-ness_ , but she kept listening. As the woman suggested she scan her body for tension Franky snorted. What about her body wasn’t tense? But as she breathed deeply she felt the knot behind her right shoulder blade, a slight ache across her lower back, a general stiffness in her neck. And then the woman was telling her how to relax her brow, shoulders, belly, and gradually Franky did actually relax a little.

By the time the tutorial was done she genuinely felt calmer, less emotional. And not at all sleepy. Franky glanced at the slip of paper and then scrolled the iPod menu until she found the first podcast Michael prescribed, _Loving Yourself Into Freedom_. She thought of the pot-smoking, yoga-practicing vegan she had fucked for a time some years earlier: Vivian. Viv would have laughed her ass off at Franky listening to Buddhist new-age meditation podcasts – whilst in prison.

This Brach woman’s language was a bit touchy-feely for Franky’s taste but the calm ease and frequent humor of the speaker cut through the foreign softness. The inherent rightness of what she was saying washed over Franky.

Unlike what she had discussed during her therapy session, this woman talked of universal issues and stories about herself and others, about common struggles. Because it wasn’t specific to Franky, because she didn’t have to give voice to the thoughts and memories this Tara Brach’s words conjured, Franky was able to really listen and take in what she was saying.

And, God, she had cried even more.

Somehow when Tara – at some point during the hour-long recording she had become Tara, a third psychologist for the inmate - talked about loving yourself, being kind to yourself, that was the most painful fucking thing. Franky knew but didn’t admit to herself why – just that loving herself and being kind to herself were not things she did. That made her cry hardest of all. She had to pause the audio and stifle sobs into her pillow at that.

When the podcast was done she lay there for a long while, mind churning with new awareness. Eventually when reaching for toilet paper to blow her runny nose, Franky’s eyes landed on her journal. 

She grabbed it and turned to the first blank page and began by just naming how she was feeling – a trick Tara taught in the podcast. She started to describe on paper how she felt and she was surprised both at how easy that was and how it morphed: sadness, disappointment, grief, loneliness, unlovable – on and on. Eventually description gave way to more coherent thoughts, memories and understandings. When she looked up she realized she had been writing for a half hour.

Exhaustion washed over her as she closed the journal and plugged the iPod in to charge. She crawled into bed and lay on her back for a moment before flipping over onto her stomach. She attempted to make the prison-issue pillow at all comfortable beneath her cheek.

Then her thoughts returned to wishing Bridget was there with her, pressed against her back, arm slipped beneath Franky’s, leg nestled behind hers in a mirrored crook. She summoned the idea of the woman’s weight, heat, soft breath on her neck and Franky fell asleep as she imagined the blonde whispering, _Good night, Franky_.

* * *

When she woke the next morning, Franky felt stripped bare. Somehow the emotional work she’d done the previous day made her feel physically different. She would have donned armor if she had any. As it was she layered up and zipped her hoodie. She felt a little like she had after the session when she’d confessed Meg Jackson’s murder to Bridget – naked, raw.

As she walked the halls, blonde hair, a quick gait – anyone who might be Bridget – caught her eye. Franky didn’t actually see the blonde for two days though, and then it had been when she hadn’t been looking for her.

Franky had been mopping outside the library, lost in thoughts of the podcast she had listened to that morning (she had already listened once to all of the ones Michael had suggested and she was now on a second go-round), when she heard footfalls coming rapidly down the quiet hall behind her. Then they slowed suddenly.

Franky turned and there was Bridget, looking every bit as surprised as she was, clad in that bright purple top that added a tint of green to the psychologist’s eyes. Franky opened her mouth to say something but no words came. She wasn’t sorry about that though because she was entirely unsure whether she could utter a word without her voice cracking with emotion. Nor that she wouldn’t say something insane like, _I love you._

Instead Franky smiled, letting every bit of happiness and relief at seeing the blonde show on her face – unguarded, unfettered, open, honest. 

“Hi, Franky,” Bridget exhaled, smiling, eyes roaming the brunette’s face, sparkling with the light Franky hoped only shone for her.

And then they were no longer alone – a gaggle of inmates from D block passed by en route to the library, a few saying hello to Bridget as they passed. Group session, Franky guessed. She looked down at her mop until she was alone again with Bridget.

She felt the heat of the blonde’s gaze and looked back up into blue eyes that were tinged with concern. That killed Franky – stabbed her directly in the heart, sharpening desire to pain since Bridget had walked away from the possibility of whatever it was between them – at least for now.

Tears sprung to Franky’s eyes – _fucking really? again??_ – and she quickly looked down again. Bridget had to feel it, the energy between them, the magnetic draw. Franky felt her heart would beat out of her chest. Surely it was audible… She wrapped both hands around the mop handle lest she reach for the woman as every cell in her body screamed for her to do.

A trio of inmates neared and Franky’s eyes traveled the length of Bridget’s arm to her hand, to the signet ring she nearly always wore, the one Franky wondered about – _Where had it come from? Who had given it to her? What was its significance?_ Those fingers…

After the women passed, Franky looked back at Bridget’s face, wondering whether her obvious ogling registered to the blonde, if thoughts of those fingers, of Bridget’s touch, were written all over her face. 

Bridget’s eyes darkened just briefly and Franky knew. Bridget’s pink lips parted and Franky willed her own hands to stay where they were. 

Franky drew in a breath and managed, “Have a good session.” Then she returned to her work, heart aching in her chest, tears welling in her eyes.

She felt Bridget’s presence, her gaze, for many moments as she mopped. Then she heard the familiar swoosh as the library door closed and the little double-knock it made as it settled into place. Only then did the tears fall. Franky missed Bridget, their time together, the older woman’s attention, conversation, energy, light – she missed Bridget like she didn’t know possible. And there wasn’t a thing that she could do to remedy the situation.

 _Fuck…_ she exhaled, hurt sharp in her chest, tightening her throat. The downside to the awareness that was happening her, the “presence” she was “cultivating” as Tara Brach’s words seeped into her mind and soul, was that she now felt things more than ever – more emotions, deeper ones too. And it was fucking painful. 

Again she tried that naming thing, in her head this time, as she continued to mop the corridor swiftly so she could be sure to be gone by the time Bridget’s session was over.

* * *

It had been the longest weekend Franky could recall since being at Wentworth – which was saying something. With no hope of another Bridget Westfall sighting Franky threw herself into two things: working on an appeal to reduce Bea Smith’s sentence and finish listening to all of the podcasts a second time.

She had already filled so many journal pages with reflections, questions, memories and notes taken between listening sessions. And crying was her new hobby. She’d taken to carrying a wad of tissue in her hoodie sleeve lest she be caught unprepared when the dams broke – which was at some pretty fucking inopportune times.

She’d been playing a game of pick-up ball Saturday morning and one of her teammates grabbed her wrist a certain way and, in an instant, Franky recalled one incident of her mother grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her to the kitchen where she was tossed onto the floor and screamed at while she picked up a box of cereal that she hadn’t spilled on the floor, in spite of what her mother believed.  
  
The sense memory had immediately brought tears to Franky’s eyes and she quickly excused herself from the game, fleeing back to her cell where she fell apart entirely. She was becoming unhinged and that was the scariest feeling ever.

That night Bea had come round to her cell. “You’ve been laying low,” Red had observed.

“Working on a few things,” Franky replied, wondering why checking on her had become Bea’s new pastime.

“S’that it?” Bea replied, not buying it. “Heard you had a run-in with Lora on the courts. Anything I need to know?”

“Nah,” Franky replied, battling the instinct to tell her to fuck off and another, counter instinct to say thanks. She chose silence instead, eyes returning to the journal page she was writing.

Bea lingered a bit longer in the doorway – it seemed to be becoming a habit. When Franky looked back up, Bea asked, “D’ya see Jodie today?”

“Nah,” Franky replied, concern seeping into her eyes. “Sarah was there when I took lunch ‘round. Will give it another go tomorrow.”

Bea made no move to leave so Franky again met her eyes. “You okay?” Red asked.

Franky exhaled, again fighting the urge to snipe at the woman. She studied Bea’s face, seeking some sign of the other woman’s intentions. All she found was a soft kindness, genuine concern etched across the plane of her brow.

“I’m handling some shit,” Franky said, voice barely above a whisper. “Some of my own shit. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m just… Handling it.”

Bea’s eyes lingered a little longer before she tucked her chin a bit. “Okay,” she allowed, nodding. “Well, I’m… here… if you…" 

Franky rolled her eyes. “Don’t go getting soft on me, Red,” Franky admonished. “That’s how top dogs lose their footing.”

Red smiled, “No worries there, I just… You can talk to me, ya know?”

For some reason Franky believed her. And this caused a fresh wave of tears to be summoned to her eyes. _Fuck…_

“Thanks,” she managed, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be sure to call you the next time I feel like crying into my bon-bons and braiding my B-F-F’s hair." The sarcasm made Bea smile. “Now fuck off,” Franky said lightly, motioning for the other woman to leave.

“Alright, alright,” Bea nodded. “Good night.” 

Franky watched Bea slip out, her eyes following the door as it closed. Then Franky closed her eyes, exhaling as the tears streamed down her cheeks. This feelings thing, this whole letting your emotions be what they were was fucking torture.

Again her thoughts returned to Bridget and how she wished for the blonde to be there. The ache deepened in the center of her chest. She pressed her hands over her heart – a trick Tara mentioned in one of the lectures – and after several deep breaths Franky was surprised to realize she felt a little better. Franky felt surprised on a regular basis now.

Her eyes eventually returned to her journal page and she had an idea. She doubted Bridget Westfall would ever read what she wrote but as she turned to a fresh journal page, Franky began to write to the woman she so longed for.

_Dear Bridget -_


	10. Starts and Stops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wentworth” fanfiction. Fridget (Franky/Bridget) all the way. Adult language and situations. Spoilers through episode 3x11. Please see chapter one and subsequent chapters for disclaimers.
> 
> Many of you have already read chapter 11 because I posted it out of sequence. I’ll re-post it in a few days. In the mean time for a sequel to this chapter, check out The Note, a one-off I posted a while back. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, my apologies for the ridiculously long delay between posts. As a reader I hate that sort of thing; as a writer, life occasionally interferes. At any rate, thanks for hanging in there. Chapter 11 is already done and will be posted again this week, and I promise to have chapter 12 up by the end of March. Happy reading!

After the third round listening to each podcast Franky Doyle was beginning to be able to quote psychologist and spiritual teacher, Tara Brach. She could already anticipate where the American was going. As she lay in bed on Sunday night, unable to sleep (in anticipation of the next day when she might, just might, run into the one woman in the world who she most wanted to see) Franky scrolled through the other iPod offerings and found both an impressive array of bland classical music no doubt designed to soothe savage souls, and an Audiobook: _Radical Self-Acceptance_ , by the prolific Ms. Brach.

 

_What the fuck?_

 

She hadn’t listened to it yet and she had nothing better to do so Franky pressed play. Three and a quarter hours later Franky felt dismantled. This Brach woman had flayed her open and exposed all the parts of Franky Doyle that were roots of her trouble. She was wide awake now, at 3:30 in the morning and she reached for her journal and pen, overflowing with thoughts and feelings.

 

She began writing as she had done so often with two words that made it easier, somehow, to confess her innermost thoughts and feelings: _Dear Bridget..._

 

* * *

 

Three hours of sleep Monday night had left Franky bleary but she still faced the day with an incredible optimism about the possibility of catching sight of Bridget. The day came and went without even a passing glance. By Tuesday afternoon Franky had recovered her rest enough to be even more alert to the fact that the blonde was nowhere to be found.

 

When she woke on Wednesday Franky was a little heartbroken at not having seen Bridget yet. It occurred to her that maybe it was by design - that perhaps Bridget found it easier to avoid her. This made Franky both angry as hell and, more so, totally forlorn. H-block had a standing group therapy session with the psychologist every Wednesday morning and, over breakfast, Franky considered attending.

 

She had judiciously avoided group since Kim Chang’s outburst and now the risks of attending were even greater. Another outburst by Kim or a similarly snarky inmate? And what if Bridget didn’t actually want to see her? What if Bridget treated her like all the other inmates? Franky knew she couldn’t survive that unscathed and the idea that the blonde might be avoiding her stung too much so she busied herself deep cleaning stovetops in the kitchen so that, when time for group came around, she was too greasy and mid-project to even consider going.

 

Still, all thoughts led to Bridget. Was she expecting to see Franky? Was she disappointed? Did she even give a second thought about Franky anymore?

 

By the time her lunch shift ended Franky was squarely in the sad category. Between her own longing for Bridget and news of Jodie’s “accident”, guilt and longing consumed her. She felt like going back to her cell to curl up and cry, which pissed her off. So instead she decided to do something on behalf of someone else. She retrieved a folder of notes from her cell and headed to the library.

 

***

 

Franky was hours-deep into her work on Bea Smith’s appeal, having lost all sense of time. So when the familiar voice of Bridget Westfall fell upon her ears she was disarmed. Franky’s eyes first fell to the blonde’s fingers which danced lightly across the page of an open book just inches from Franky’s own hand.

 

When she looked up, Franky felt the glassiness of her own eyes as they raked over the woman she had missed so terribly, a fresh ache blooming in her chest.

 

“Ready for your parole hearing?”

 

_What’_ _s_ _it_ _to_ _you_ _?_ crossed Franky’s mind but instead she managed to creak out a lame but true excuse about having been busy.

 

As she watched Bridget struggle to handle the disconnected words, then smile, Franky couldn’t contain her joy at seeing the woman, at having her close even in such a public space. And then – _was Bridget being flirty?_

 

Happiness slammed up against confusion and the ache of the past few days, of all the emotional work she’d done, leaving Franky uniquely bare and vulnerable. Instead of freaking out and running, she winced and gazed up at the woman she trusted.  


“I thought we weren’t doing this anymore.”

 

Then the cock of Bridget’s head, mere squaring of her jaw as she placed both hands on Franky’s table and gazed down: Bridget was absolutely flirting. The way her silky blouse billowed between her breasts drew Franky’s awareness, her heart leaping in her chest.

 

“We can still talk.”

 

Franky felt like she couldn’t breathe she was so elated. There was no mistaking the loaded implications of what Bridget said. Franky felt her own moxie rise.

 

“What do you want to _talk_ about…?”

 

Franky tried to memorize every detail of Bridget’s face as a serious pallor descended.

 

“Jodi Spiteri.”

 

Franky’s face fell, a fresh wave of guilt over Jodi’s fate washing over her, and the realization that it must be serious if Bridget was breaking her iron clad rule and speaking with her about another inmate. Franky glanced around, keenly aware of the unguarded nature of this exchange, feeling the weight of the seriousness of what had happened to her former lover.

 

“What do you know? Did Ferguson stick her in the eye?”

 

The blue eyes that held her gaze were clear, serious, but kind as Bridget leaned a little closer, conspiratorial in her volume and tone.

 

“In a way, possibly.”

 

Franky needed more. “Come on.”

  
Franky slipped back between the bookshelves. When she looked up, Bridget seemed unsure, calculating the risk. After a quick glance around, she followed. Franky’s eyes scanned the room again to be sure they were unseen.

 

Bridget stepped close. There was no time to really enjoy her proximity, Franky knew. Their time together would be minimal.

 

“You saw Ferguson visiting Jodi in the slot?”

 

"It all fits with what Jodi said and what we put in the complaint,” Franky nodded, responsibility heavy in her chest. “Ferguson was torturing her.”

 

“Do you believe what Smith said about the man in the boiler room?” Bridget asked, blue eyes searching Franky’s face.

  
“Do you?” Franky asked, grateful to be taken seriously by Bridget.  


“I’m starting to,” Bridget admitted.

 

“So what are you gonna do about it?” Franky asked, searching the blonde’s face.

 

“I don’t know,” Bridget admitted. Bridget didn’t conceal the worry on her face and Franky’s heart soared that she wasn’t hiding her emotions. “My God, I’ve got to be careful.”

 

Franky grinned as she glanced to see that they were still unnoticed, allowing herself to really feel the joy at being in such intimate, unguarded proximity to the woman she had been missing so terribly over the past few days; joy that Bridget had taken the risk to find Franky, to be open with her.

 

Emboldened by all of this, Franky didn’t take the time to second guess herself before she asked, “Do you miss me?” It was the only thing on her mind, in her heart; the only thing that mattered.

 

When Bridget didn’t answer immediately, Franky cocked her head to the side, smiling shyly, guard down, vulnerability plainly showing on her face. Franky was taking a huge risk.

 

She watched as a smile bloomed on the blonde’s face and Franky exhaled, heart leaping to her throat, no words necessary – Bridget’s face said it all.

 

Franky reached for Bridget’s face, desperate to touch this woman again. Fingertips landed gently along the blonde’s jaw, Franky’s thumb tracing the arc of Bridget’s lower lip. The blonde’s tongue darted out, soft and wet as it brushed the inmate’s skin, setting fire to Franky deep within her core.

 

Bridget’s exhale filled her ears and Franky felt herself pulled closer, magnetic heat between them eradicating everything but this moment between them.

 

Franky wanted to taste those lips, was dying to, but she also knew Bridget was a rule-follower so as she neared the psychologist’s face she wasn’t surprised when the older woman turned her head, avoiding the inevitable.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“I know.” Thumb steering the blonde’s jaw back toward Franky, who was delighted, soaring, and so very much in love.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“I know.” Fingertips on her jaw, her neck.

 

“Not here, not yet.”

 

And that was everything…

 

The seriousness of Bridget’s face, her commitment to what was right was fine with Franky because she knew for certain that Bridget wanted her too and this heat between them, the kiss they both wanted, would happen. Just not yet.

 

Franky grinned, happier than she had been in the longest time. Perhaps ever. As Bridget took a chance, meeting Franky’s gaze, Franky’s fingertips fell, landing midway down Bridget’s stomach, trailing down to her waistline where a belt buckle stopped them. Pads of Franky’s fingertips met a sliver of bare skin where Bridget’s blouse ended.

 

Warm, velvety skin. The sharp inhale of breath.

 

And then, Vera.

 

The “oh fuck” look on Bridget’s face. A quick tallying that Vera had not indeed seen them touching, _thank Christ_ , and a whispered reassurance.

 

“She didn’t see anything.”

  
And like that, Franky and Bridget were a duo, a unit, a team, co-conspirators.

 

Franky exhaled as Bridget started to turn toward the mousy assistant warden. Franky’s eyes found Vera’a gaze, boring into the brunette with her stare. Vera’s eyes quickly shifted to Bridget’s as the blonde squared her stance and started to walk away.

  
Franky’s gaze fell to the psychologist’s perfect ass and, not for the first time, she imagined for a moment having the chance to side her hands down Bridget’s back and over the soft, toned muscle and skin. Then Bridget turned and their eyes met again.

 

Bridget nodded, continuing to move, to walk away, but delivering a message that took a moment to get through to Franky.

 

_Yes. Yes, I miss you. Yes, I want this. Yes. Yes. Yes._

And suddenly it was the best day of Franky’s life.

 

_Ohmigodohmigodohmigod. Yes!_

* * *

 

The high from her library encounter had lasted until Friday afternoon. Franky had caught sight of Bridget only once since then. She had been leaving the kitchen after her shift when she crossed paths with Bridget who was walking with another inmate whose name Franky didn’t know.

 

The blonde met Franky’s gaze and she smiled warmly but only for a moment before her face returned to a more neutral but pleasant countenance. Franky knew that smile was for her and her alone. She returned it before ducking her chin, inwardly mocking herself for her own racing pulse. But it didn’t matter.

 

And then she was in the yard reading through the notes she’d made the previous day after her “therapy session” with a Tara Brach podcast. A few girls had asked her to join in their pick-up game but she had declined, preferring instead to spend a little quiet time reading what she’d written the night before.

 

She had awakened from a dream – a nightmare, really. In it she was walking toward the kitchen to retrieve her notebook which she had left behind, stashed behind a tin in the store room for safekeeping. She kept it on her at all times now, madly scribbling thoughts, questions, breakthroughs whenever they came. In her dream, she found the notebook but when she went to exit the storeroom, the metal gridded door was locked.

 

Then she smelled the smoke. A grease fire on the oven. It was growing rapidly. And she knew… Her heart sank as Franky realized this was deliberate, meant for her – none of this was an accident. One of the countless women who she’d fucked over or taken advantage of, wronged in some way, was getting back at her. She could think of a dozen people who would do such a thing. And then there was the Freak…

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… Shit,” she’d said under her breath. And then she’d screamed, “Help! There’s a fire and I’m stuck in here. Help! Somebody help, please!”

 

Smoke increasingly filled her nose and eyes and when the fire alarm finally began to sound and the guards came running it was too late. She was fucked.

 

She’d awoken, heart racing, sweating, coughing as if the smoke were real. She blinked several times to be sure it wasn’t. When the memory faded what remained was the dread and the feeling that she would never escape Wentworth.

 

As she read her own words her eyes stung and then she looked up – feeling Bridget’s presence before she saw her. It took a split second to add up Vera’s presence, the box, the set of Bridget’s jaw.

 

And then Franky was at the fence. And Bridget turned to her, smiling, those blue eyes fixing her, conveying so much more than words could.

 

_You’re going to be alright. I’m not leaving you._

 

The rest was in slow motion as Franky recorded every movement, every word, the look in those eyes, so she could return to it over and over again. It was exquisite: at once Bridget was being the most open she’d ever been, love and adoration literally shone on her face as the two spoke between the bars. For her part, Franky tried to let the joy of that show on her own face more than the abject fear that this would be the last time she’d ever see Bridget Westfall.

 

And as she watched Bridget continue to make her way around the yard, Vera marshalling her every step, Franky couldn’t help but follow her, wishing for some words that weren’t, _Don’t leave me!_ as every fiber of her being screamed. Bridget’s face showed her concern as she continued to watch Franky even as her feet carried her closer to the gate.

  
When they reached the gate, Bridget turned, eyes and attention squarely focused on Franky. She smiled and Franky managed to smile back. _See you soon…?_

 

As the gate closed behind Bridget, the little girl inside Franky, the one who’d been abandoned first by her adored father, then by her abusive mother; the girl who had no one in the world to care about her; was dying inside.

 

Tears sprung to her eyes as the temporary joy was overtaken by a tsunami of that dread leftover from her dream the night before. Franky knew she’d never get out of Wentworth Prison alive.

 

* * *

 

Bridget had called her supervisor straight away to inform him of Ferguson’s actions.

 

“I know you were getting close to having something actionable on her,” David had said. “Any luck that you got it before you left?”

 

“No,” Bridget replied. “But there’s still a chance. I may have an in with one of the senior staff. I pointed her in a direction and, if my instinct is right, she won’t be able to resist looking into this herself. But even then – we may not have any hard proof.”

 

“Well it’s certainly not for a lack of work on your part,” he sighed. “Your preliminary reports make me certain Ferguson is abusing the system, abusing prisoners. It’s only a matter of time.”

  
“I feel so unfinished with it all,” Bridget said cracking the windows for a bit of cool air, which always sharpened her thinking. The automatic seat warmer in her car had the rest of her body quite warm already. “I wish I could have done more…”

 

“I know you do,” David said. “You’re the best forensic psych in my stable. It’s doubtful whether anyone else would have had better results.”

 

“Still…”

 

“So next steps: write up your final report, then take a few days to clear your head and next week give me a call for your next assignment,” David instructed.

 

“Will do,” Bridget replied. “Thanks, David.”

 

“Thank you, Bridget,” he said. “Speak with you soon.”

 

So that was that. She ended the call and looked back at the prison. She willed Franky to know that her heart and mind remained with her. She hoped her words to Franky as she left would sink in, that the younger woman would really take them to heart and not sink into despair as one might.

  
Bridget also knew Franky was finally getting into some heavy stuff in therapy and had seen the process crack the inmate’s formidable shell, leaving her more emotional, more vulnerable. She worried that would leave Franky even more susceptible to attack.

 

In all, the only thing Bridget could really do was prepare for Franky’s parole hearing and to write a comprehensive psychological profile of Joan Ferguson, delivering her last act as prison psych in a way that would leave the governor ripe to be investigated.

 

But that would all start tomorrow. As she started the engine she commanded her phone to dial Abby. She needed a friend. And a drink.

 

 * * *

 

As the door closed behind Franky and the guard, Bridget turned to glare at Joan Ferguson. The woman – _the monster_ – gazed straight ahead, which angered Bridget further. She knew, knew, that Ferguson had something to do with whatever was wrong with Franky. The self-satisfied, smug look on the governor’s face was mere confirmation.

 

If Joan had been brave, or crazy, enough to look at Bridget Westfall, she would have seen the blonde’s nostrils flare and her jaw set before she reeled around.

  
Bridget drew an audible breath.

 

“May I address the panel?” she asked, looking each member in the eye, her best reassuring, bright, competent smile in tact.

 

“Of course,” the blonde replied. Bridget thought her name was Cynthia but her talent for mixing up names was epic so she didn’t risk it being wrong.

 

“Unless the panel needs anything further from Ms. Doyle, or unless Governor Ferguson has any further statement to make, might we conclude the hearing and move on to a decision. I’m sure whatever is ailing Franky is entirely to blame for her… upset… earlier, but I stand by my recommendation for parole. Do you, Governor Ferguson?”

 

Bridget turned and let all her anger show in her eyes.

 

Joan’s met her gaze only for a moment before she said, “Uh, no.”

 

The vote to parole Franky had been unanimous.

 

Bridget was careful to temper her smile, to quiet the deep exhale as she watched the three prison board members sign the parole form. Bridget watched as Ferguson signed it as well and then, satisfied that she had done right by Franky, that Franky would soon be free, she slipped out of the room hoping to hear news of Franky – or at least find the guard who escorted her.

 

She turned up empty handed, though and as she stood, waiting to be let out into the visitor’s waiting area, a flash of red hair caught her eye: Bea Smith. Bea looked up and, after it registered on her face, she smiled.

 

“Hi, Ms. Westfall,” she said, taking a few steps toward Bridget. “You back?”

 

“No,” Bridget sighed, an edge of disgust at the situation clear in her expression. “I was here for Franky’s parole hearing.”

 

“How’d it go?” Bea asked.

 

“Well,” Bridget replied, “But Franky had to leave a little early – she felt ill.”

 

Bea’s face fell, only for a moment, but it was enough to let Bridget know that Bea knew something about this and whatever it was wasn’t good.

 

“Have you seen Franky lately?” Bridget asked, her voice a clear octave higher than normal.

 

Bea swallowed hard, “This morning. Before her hearing. Not since.”

 

The two just looked at each other for a long moment before Bea swallowed hard a second time.

 

“If she was feeling ill,” she said deliberately, “She’d be in medical. I could go check on her. Let her know you asked about her?”

 

Bridget had an idea of her own. She scanned the room – a few visitors waiting to be buzzed in; a few passing inmates; cameras everywhere. She turned toward the guard at the desk. “Might I borrow a slip of paper and pen?”

 

The man whose name she thought was Gary, happily obliged and, Bridget hastily scribbled a note before tearing the slip, just a corner of the paper, off. She wadded the torn paper and handed it and the pen back to Gary before turning back to Bea, even as Bridget’s fingers worked to fold the note into a small square.

 

“Please do tell her I asked about her,” Bridget said, reaching for Bea’s hand, secreting the note in her palm.

 

The redhead quickly withdrew her hand, nodding. “Will do, Ms. Westfall.”

 

Bridget smiled warmly at the inmate, acknowledging the risk she was taking, the favor she was doing. She had no idea whether the note would ever reach Franky but she certainly hoped it would.

 

Under normal circumstances, Franky would be out within five days but she knew Ferguson would do everything in her power to make it a long five days. And in those days an inmate could easily become a target for anyone resentful at their achievement of parole. Franky had plenty of enemies – known and unknown to Bridget. But Franky was also bloody clever and, no doubt, she would be aware of all the risks.

 

And then there was Franky’s illness – or injury – whatever that might impede. If it was her appendix or something else that required surgery it might postpone Franky’s freedom by weeks. Bridget was anxious for news of Franky’s health.  
  
Still as Bridget was buzzed out of holding and into the waiting room, she glanced back at Bea who was watching her. Bea nodded once and smiled, worry unmistakable in her eyes, before turning to walk away. However long it was before she saw Franky, was too long.

 

Bridget turned to go, fighting the pull to go and find the woman she loved who was somewhere back behind the bars of Wentworth.

 

TBC

 

_Note:_ Many of you have already read chapter 11 because I posted it out of sequence. I’ll re-post it in a few days. In the mean time for a sequel to this chapter, check out _The Note_ , a one-off I posted a while back. Enjoy!

 


	11. Where There's Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers through S3E12. All the spoilers. And one more chapter to go. This series will dovetail into the brilliant work of Sticks and Stones.

Bridget Westfall felt like she would vomit. Her heart raced and she fought the urge to push her Porsche to its limit so she could get to the hospital instantly.

It had begun with a text from Helen Stewart.

Have you heard about Wentworth?

Bridget quickly replied. Ding dong the witch is dead? She assumed the news about the Board’s Suspension of Joan Ferguson had been made public.

She was surprised to hear Helen’s ringtone. “Hi, Helen,” Bridget answered.

“What’s this about a witch?” Helen asked.

“I assume you’ve heard about Ferguson?” Bridget asked. There was a pause and in that moment Bridget’s heart stopped. “What is it?"

“There’s been a fire…”

Bridget didn’t hear the rest of what her friend said, though she remained on the line as the Scot continued to speak. Without thinking she grabbed her bag and keys, pausing for the briefest moment to fasten her boots and she was out the door and headed to the prison.

She arrived to the chaos of emergency personnel. Bridget had to park outside the gates and she was grateful that she still had her Department of Correctional Services all-access staff I.D. badge that could effectively get her into any prison in the country. A few flashes of it and the fire marshals let her through.

Bridget made a beeline for the collection of ambulances, dread that Franky had somehow been involved multiplying with every step she took. She spotted Vera, who stood with her back to the psychologist, speaking with one uniformed officer and one plainclothes detective Bridget remembered from her days working on the flip side of the justice system. He saw her first and nodded, a faint smile. 

“Miss Westfall,” he greeted her. 

At that, Vera turned. She looked surprised and opened her mouth to say something but stopped just before sound came out. Her eyes studied Bridget’s face for a long moment, then she said, “She’s alright." 

Bridget exhaled, only then becoming aware that she had been holding her breath. Still, she needed more information. Tear-welled eyes sought out Vera’s, imploringly.

“Smoke inhalation,” Vera continued at last. “And a concussion. They’ve taken her to hospital.”

Moments later, Bridget was nearly running back to her car, name of the hospital in her head, authorization for her to visit relayed by the detective to the officer who was guarding Franky. As she pulled out of the parking lot, Bridget’s phone rang. It was Helen again. She took a deep breath before answering.

“She’s okay I think,” Bridget said, voice thick with unshed tears.

“Thank goodness,” Helen said.

“Smoke inhalation,” Bridget continued. “Concussion. I’m headed to Memorial now.”

“Want me to come sit with you?"

The offer brought a fresh wave of emotion to Bridget.

“Thanks,” she managed. “You have no idea how much that means. I’ll text once I see how she’s doing and let you know.”

“Okay,” Helen said, voice soft and calm, reassuring. “Drive safely.”

“Will do,” Bridget said. “Thanks, Helen.”

She hit end before hanging a left. The Porsche cornered like a motherfucker and she offered up a silent thanks to the universe, as she did so often, for bringing Ray Westfall into her life. The prized possession had been left to her five years earlier by her adopted father, the man literally responsible for saving Bridget’s life and that of her mother so many years earlier.

She made it to the hospital in record time. Bridget walked as quickly as her short, athletic legs could carry her and to the front desk. She drew a deep breath as fingers plunged into her bag in search of her badge.

“Hi, I’m the psychologist from Wentworth Prison. We have an inmate who was just brought in after a fire,” she managed a smile at the middle-aged woman behind the desk.

“What’s the name?” the woman asked.

“Doyle – Franky,” Bridget replied as calmly as she could muster. “Francesca.” It occurred to Bridget that this was the first time she’d spoken Franky’s given name aloud. She clipped her badge to her jacket lapel as the woman navigated a computer.

“Miss Doyle is in the East Wing, room 309,” the woman said. “Go down that hall, take the first left and you’ll see two elevators. Get off at the third floor. Turn right and follow the signs to 309.”

Bridget was already on the move when she replied, “Thank you.”

She followed the woman’s directions, emerging onto the third floor and following a series of signs that eventually led to a hallway. She looked up and noticed Rose, Wentworth’s resident Nurse Practitioner, exiting a room with an officer seated in a chair beside the door.

“Hi,” Rose smiled when she saw Bridget approaching. The woman obviously read the worry in Bridget’s face. “Franky’s fine – smoke inhalation and a mild concussion. They scanned and scoped her and there’s no permanent damage. They want to observe her tonight and keep her on oxygen.” 

Bridget let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”

Rose studied her with friendly curiosity, “It’s lovely that you came to check on her.”

Bridget smiled, struggling to not just burst through the closed door that was all that separated her from Franky. Her eyes met the nurse’s.

“Would you be able to stay with her for a bit?” Rose asked. “They’re changing nursing shifts and I want to be sure Franky’s well-taken care of but I need to check on little Joshua.”

“I’ll stay,” Bridget managed, wondering if the nurse had any idea how much she meant that. 

“Thanks,” Rose smiled, “I’ll come back to check on her before I leave for the night.” Then the nurse turned to the officer. “This is Miss Westfall – she’s the prison psychologist.”

The young man stood. “She’s on the list,” he nodded.

“Alright then,” Rose smiled. “I’ll be off.”

Bridget smiled at them both and then opened the door. 

Franky’s face was turned away from her, toward the wall of windows looking out into a light-dappled night in the city. She looked smaller somehow as she reclined at an angle in the hospital bed.

Bridget shut the door behind her and took a step toward the bed. Franky’s head turned slowly. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose but their eyes met and Franky’s widened.

“Are you really here?” Franky asked, voice muffled by plastic and the mechanical hiss of oxygen.

In lieu of words, Bridget closed the distance between them, hands reaching for Franky’s. The blonde didn’t expect the firm tug that pulled her down to sit at the edge of the bed. Franky shifted her long, lean legs to the side, creating a little more room for the psychologist, who in turn scooted her toned ass until she was seated more fully, hip nestled against the outside of Franky’s thigh.

The blonde looked up and their eyes really met for the first time in the dim night lighting of the room. From their very first session, it had broken Bridget’s heart and made her tear up when Franky had tears in her eyes. In retrospect that fact, that anomaly, should have been a harbinger or at least something to consider but the psychologist had ignored it entirely. It had never happened to her with a client before. But Franky had never happened to her before. And now Franky was no longer a client…

Bridget didn’t even bother keeping her own response in check. As the first tear fell from Franky’s eyes, tears that had been hovering since she first heard news of the fire spilled forth and down Bridget’s cheeks. Franky’s hand unclasped from Bridget’s and ran up from the blonde’s hip to her shoulder before Franky pulled her into a 45 degree-angled embrace. Bridget melted into her, hands then arms slipping under Franky’s shoulders, between the mattress and her back to complete the embrace.

They both shook with tears, clinging to each other, chest to chest, cheek to cheek. The positioning should have been awkward or uncomfortable but Bridget surrendered to the gravity, heat and strong arm of the woman whose shoulder she was literally crying on.

They both sobbed – for the near miss, for the misunderstandings along the way, for the obstacles that had prevented them from this sort of intimacy already, for all that was still unsaid. After long minutes they both started to calm down and Bridget opened her eyes. Her face was turned toward the window and her eyes traveled down Franky’s long arm, the one not currently wrapped around Bridget’s torso, and she noticed the handcuff and IV line, both of which kept Franky’s arm in place. Bridget ran her hand gently down its length, mentally conveying love and comfort to this shackled piece of the woman she adored.

She turned her head and was unexpectedly nestled into Franky’s neck. More instinct than thought, she pressed her lips to the brunette’s neck and jaw – leaving sweet, soft, kisses, before loosening her own half of the embrace and sitting up a bit. Franky’s hand slipped down Bridget’s back, making the blonde shudder almost imperceptibly.

The tear-stained face of Franky Doyle totally melted her heart. Their eyes met and they both laughed. Bridget became aware of her own runny nose and sat up fully, pivoting, eyes in search of the ubiquitous tissue box that sat on most hospital trays. She spotted it and pulled two tissues, placing the first in Franky’s free hand, wiping her own face with the other.

When she looked back at Franky she realized the one-armed patient needed her assistance 

“Is it okay to take off your mask?” Bridget asked.

“Yeah,” Franky replied. “Please.”

Gently Bridget maneuvered the elastic straps so the mask became a headband as the brunette mopped her own face and nose, Bridget’s hand coming to rest on Franky’s bound arm – unwilling to sever contact.

“We’re quite the pair,” Franky smiled.

“We are,” Bridget nodded, amused and so happy. She took the sodden tissue from Franky and tossed it in the nearby garbage before turning back toward the brunette, sandwiching Franky’s free hands between her own. “How do you feel?” Bridget asked, concern emanating from her eyes.

“You’re sitting next to me, holding my hand. How do you think I feel?” Franky smiled more brightly than Bridget had ever seen. “I’m fucking over the moon.”

Bridget’s face lit up as well, fingers of one hand tucking a few stray brunette bangs back from Franky’s cheek while her other fingers infiltrated Franky’s, weaving together effortlessly. Franky turned into the touch as the back of the blonde’s fingers grazed Franky’s cheek, the patient’s lips grazing the fleshy part below Bridget’s thumb, then her wrist.

Even in her oxygen-deprived state, the flush to Franky’s cheeks was visible as the heat between them spiked. Franky’s eyes met Bridget’s. When Franky spoke she wondered where her voice had gone, words coming out in a hoarse whisper. “I know I’m technically still incarcerated but –“

Franky was cut short by the softest lips that had ever kissed her, the entire world reduced to the feel of Bridget’s mouth on hers. A full-throated moan rose from the back of her throat as Franky’s fingers threaded up into the blonde ponytail and she pulled the smaller woman to her again, eradicating any doubt the psychologist had of whether or not she was desired.

Bridget’s hand moved to Franky’s jaw, fingertips soft but firm on her cheek as Franky deepened the kiss. It was Bridget’s turn to moan breathlessly and Franky couldn’t believe how the mere sound of Bridget Westfall’s pleasure turned her on.

Soft heat and connection gave way to hunger and, as Franky’s fingertips slipped past the hem of Bridget’s shirt, grazing the sensitive skin at the base of her back, Bridget gasped and pulled back, hands gently pinning Franky’s shoulders to the mattress.

Their eyes met again – heat and desire suffused into their beings. For a moment they just breathed together, panting, the heat between them like a sun spot tugging them both into its magnetic core.

“I would hate to take advantage of you in your weakened state,” Bridget grinned at the gorgeous brunette whose face also bore the happiest expression. “But that’s exactly what’s going to happen if we don’t simmer down.”

“And here I was thinking we’ve already got the handcuffs…” Franky retorted, fingertips gliding along the outside of Bridget’s thigh.

“You’re gonna need both hands,” Bridget said in a low voice with the tinge of a growl, leaning in for one last kiss before she pulled the oxygen mask back over Franky’s mouth and nose.

“Promise?” Franky dared her, but the inmate’s eyes revealed an insecurity that dug deep into Bridget’s soul. 

“I promise,” she smiled warmly, hand cupping Franky’s cheek with all the love and comfort she had. “You’ll be out tomorrow or Friday at the latest.”

Bridget’s hands again found Franky’s, sandwiching it in a weave of palms and fingers. “And then…?” Franky asked, eyes fluttering closed as Bridget’s fingers massaged her palm.

“And then, anything you want,” Bridget smiled, thankful for the unexpected opportunity to touch this woman out of the view of cameras or colleagues, this woman who she’d lost her heart to weeks ago. “We’ll figure it out.”

After a moment Franky’s eyes opened again and Bridget saw the younger woman swallow hard. Franky’s free hand pushed the oxygen mask back up onto her forehead and she exhaled a deep breath as tears welled up in her eyes again.

“It’s been a long time since I was part of a ‘we’,” Franky admitted, her voice faint. “In fact I don’t know that I’ve ever been part of a ‘we’ aside from my best mates. I just hope I’m good enough for ya. I mean on the outside, you know.”

Franky’s confession totally broke Bridget’s heart. The brunette cast her teary eyes to look at the conflagration of their conjoined hands.

“Franky,” Bridget said so sweetly. “Look at me.”

After a moment the brunette’s eyes met hers and Bridget wondered how to convey to this precious, beautiful woman how much she meant to her. “We have so much to talk about, Franky - so much to learn about one another,” Bridget said, honestly looking forward to all of that. “And it is probably crazy to say this so soon but it’s the truth and after this night –after the fire and nearly losing you, I want you to know. I need you to know. I have fallen absolutely and totally in love with you. You are so much more than good enough.”

Tears again spilled from Franky’s eyes even as her entire face lit up. “For fuck’s sake,” the younger woman said. “I didn’t know happy tears were a real thing.” Franky slipped her hand from its nest between Bridget’s and the blonde wondered if she’d said too much. She reached with one hand to grab a tissue but Franky stopped her, fingers landing soft but sure on Bridget’s jaw, Franky’s thumb beneath the blonde’s chin.

The touch made Bridget’s heart race as the younger woman pulled her closer, raising Bridget’s chin so their eyes met again. “I’m not good at talking about my feelings,” the younger woman smiled wryly. “That’s not exactly news to you.” Bridget smiled, hand gently squeezing Franky’s thigh where it lay.

“I have a million questions about you,” Franky said, after a deep breath. “I barely know you at all but…” Franky paused, grappling for words. “In this other way I feel like I’ve known you forever.” She studied Bridget for a reaction and was instantly rewarded with a nod – Bridget agreed completely.

“I think I see who you really are – the important bits, at least - and I know you see me that way too,” Franky continued. “I don’t… let people in ‘cause they always end up hurting me or leaving. But you bloody well fought your way in past all the shit I said and did. You’re the first person whose ever fought for me. And you’re the first person I’ve really been able to trust completely… In forever.” Franky’s voice broke on the last two words, a fresh tear falling down her cheek.

She looked down for a moment and her hand trailed from Bridget’s jaw, down her arm, until they were holding hands again. Bridget squeezed her hand gently, reassuringly. She was amazed and so grateful for how much Franky had opened up in the past weeks.

Bridget knew from the reports that her colleague, Michael, had submitted from their sessions together, that Franky had opened up to him – at least tentatively - about her childhood and the anger she felt toward both of her parents. Bridget was impressed and thankful that the younger woman was working so hard to deal with her considerable childhood baggage.

Franky looked back up at Bridget. “All that to say, thank you,” the younger woman smiled. “I don’t know if I’d ever have gotten to this point. I mean, I still have a lot of shit to work through but… thank you, Bridge.”

“You’re welcome,” Bridget replied, so impressed and grateful to Franky for baring herself in this way.

Their gaze held for a long moment before a slight tilt of the brunette’s head signaled a shift.

“So I looked up transference,” Franky continued, a little of the delicious vigor that Bridget found irresistible flavoring her words. Bridget wasn’t at all surprised. “Cause I wanted to understand what you meant and what you had was countertransference, right?”

Bridget nodded, smiling. She loved how bright Franky was. “That day in the kitchen,” Franky continued. “I was mad – hurt, really. I thought you were just done with me. So I said that shit about not having the hots for ya. And I think – I mean – it seemed like that might have hurt you so I wanted to apologize.”

Bridget was speechless – both that Franky had noticed that what she said that day when Bridget came to bear her soul in some hopes of convincing Franky to not tank all of her progress and continue to work for her parole, had literally felt like a sucker punch to the blonde, and that Franky was now apologizing for it.

“The other bit is I was totally lying,” Franky smiled. “I’m far from perfect but I’m honest – I’ve been honest with you about everything except that.” She paused and drew Bridget’s hand to her, kissing soft skin. Bridget’s mind reeled, both from the feel of Franky’s lips and from the confirmation of what she’d convinced herself had been reciprocal feelings.

“I remember the first time I really saw you – in the hall outside the library,” Franky grinned. “When you stopped me – trying to talk to me – I was like, who is this little firecracker? I mean I saw you were hot and that feisty walk of yours… ”

Bridget shook her head, quietly chuckling to herself. Franky waited for her to resume eye contact before she continued. Franky wanted her to listen, Bridget knew, and she was again impressed.

“Anyone who sees you can tell you’re something special,” Franky said. “But that’s just the packaging. You see people for who they are, inside and out – no judgment – just sight and then you’re so fucking clever at getting them to open their eyes to themselves. But just the seeing thing – that’s huge, ya know?”

Bridget nodded as Franky’s thumb traced a pattern on the swell of soft flesh between Bridget’s thumb and forefinger. “Especially for those of us who are good at hiding,” Franky went on. “That very first session you really saw me. Hell, before that when you followed me to the slots – the way you looked at me and honestly, I started to fall in love with you right then. It took Kim showing up and throwing herself at me for me to admit it to myself but I was already gone.”

Bridget had forgotten to breathe and after a moment, Franky, misinterpreting her silence and stillness added, “Kim was unsuccessful – don’t worry.”

Bridget swallowed hard, shaking her head no, heart beating out of her chest. Franky’s eyebrows knit together with the mildest concern before her face melted into a smile.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh. Yeah.” Franky’s hand found the back of Bridget’s head and pulled the blonde close enough that they were breathing the same space.

“I love you, Bridget,” Franky said. “I’m in love with you.”

Satisfied that the blonde understood, Franky pulled her the rest of the way into a soft, slow perfect, searing kiss. Bridget’s hands found Franky’s face even as the brunette wrapped her free arm around Bridget’s back, pulling their chests together as both women poured their hearts into the perfect moment. It wasn’t a hungry kiss – it was one entirely intended to express love. After a long moment their lips parted before meeting again in a fluttering of sweet nibbles.

“That’s one way to get her breathing again.”

The distinctly male voice surprised them both as they’d been lost in the moment and in each other. Bridget sat up quickly and both she and Franky looked at the man clad in blue scrubs who had just entered the room.

“Sorry to interrupt. I’m Bruce,” he said. “I’ll be looking after you tonight, Miss Doyle.”

“Franky,” she insisted, sizing him up.

“Franky, then,” he smiled as he erased Lynn under the Nurse: designation on the dry erase board that hung opposite her bed and replaced it with his own name. One hand reached out for the rolling computer stand as he came around the far side of Franky’s bed.

He was classically handsome – almost pretty, Bridget thought. Deep brown eyes looked at her and he smiled. “And you are?”

“Bridget,” she said, returning his smile, easing off the bed to stand. Franky’s hand found Bridget’s again, fingers entwining easily and the women’s eyes met.

“Lovely to meet you both,” Bruce smiled, glancing between them. “I’m just going to check your readings,” he told Franky. “Won’t be but a moment.”

He pulled a rolling stool up to the computer cart and began to type.

After a moment he asked, “Are you experiencing any pain?”

“Uh, no,” Franky replied, watching the man work. 

“Headache?” He continued.

“Maybe a little,” she said. “Nothing too bad, though. 

He typed a few things into the computer. “Would you like a pain reliever?”

“If you have an aspirin that would be awesome,” she said. Bridget’s free hand found the top of Franky’s head, fingers combing through her hair, lightly grazing her scalp. Franky’s eyes closed at the pleasure of the touch. 

“I think we can arrange that,” he smiled, continuing to type.

Franky opened her eyes and looked up at Bridget whose attention was trained squarely on her.

“This okay?” the psychologist asked.

“Oh my God, yes,” Franky exhaled. “Feels fucking awesome.” Bruce chuckled. “Beg pardon,” Franky added 

“Not fucking necessary,” Bruce smiled back. Franky grinned.

“Your levels look good,” Bruce continued, standing. “Your pulse-ox is strong - but you might want to keep that mask on when you’re not snogging.”

He winked at Franky as he made his way to her side. His hand found her cuffed wrist and he examined her IV site with his eyes and hands. “We’re just keeping you hydrated with this,” he explained. “Not too uncomfortable?”

The handcuffs didn’t phase him and Bridget silently sainted him for that.

“No,” Franky replied. “My arm’s a little cold.”

“That happens,” Bruce nodded. “I’ll get a blanket for ya. Are you thirsty?”

“A little,” she replied.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“Just some water, thanks,” Franky said.

“How about you, Bridget?” Bruce asked, smiling at the blonde.

“I’ll pick up something later,” she said.

“What’ll you have – a coffee?” Bruce persisted.

She smiled. “Sure, thank you. Decaf if possible.”

“Be right back, ladies,” Bruce smiled before taking his leave.

Franky looked up at the blonde. “Friendly bloke,” she observed. “His timing’s for shit but, you know…”

Bridget smiled down at the equally smiling face of Franky Doyle. Bridget leaned over, kissing Franky passionately, tongue tracing her lips until Franky moaned hungrily, her lips parting to deepen the kiss, arm pulling Bridget to her. After long, heated moments, Bridget ended the kiss, sitting up quickly and replacing her mouth with the oxygen mask.

Franky’s breathless panting was echoed in the plastic chamber, her astonishment unambiguous, “Fuck me, Bridget.”

“I intend to,” the blonde said leaning down to kiss Franky’s cheek and jaw before sucking the inmate’s fleshy earlobe into her mouth.

Bridget heard and felt the sharp intake of breath as her tongue bathed soft skin, sucking and nipping gently.

“Holy shit, Gidge,” she panted, fogging up the oxygen mask.

“Just want you properly motivated to get well and out of here,” Bridget grinned at her.

“Motivated and aroused,” Franky exhaled, trying to marshal her breath. “You’ve been mastering that combo with me from the start.”

Both women laughed and Bridget drew Franky’s hand, once again entwined with hers, to her lips for a kiss. The door opened again but instead of Bruce, they saw Rose slip into the room.

Bridget and Franky’s eyes met. There was no way Rose didn’t see the kiss. Bridget quirked an eyebrow but didn’t untangle their hands, even as she stood up from her place on the bedside. Rose took a few steps toward them and when Bridget looked at her, the RN smiled knowingly.

“I see you’re in good hands,” Rose said, looking to Franky. “Has your new nurse come by yet?”

“Yes,” Franky smiled. “He’s not you but he’ll do.”

“Ever the charmer,” Rose smiled. “Do you need anything before I go?”

“Nah, thanks,” Franky replied.

“I’ll be back in the morning to check in on you,” Rose said. “They should release you pretty early.”

“Thanks for everything,” Franky said, sincerity in her voice and face.

“You’re welcome,” Rose smiled. She looked to Bridget then back to Franky. “Have a good night.”

“Thank you,” Bridget smiled before the nurse turned to exit. As the door swung shut behind Rose, it stopped suddenly reversing its course as Bruce entered the room carrying two Styrofoam cups.

“Hydration for you,” Bruce said as he deposited both cups and a palm full of packets of sugar and powdered creamer on the rolling tray, which he pushed closer to the bed.

“Thanks so much,” Bridget smiled at him. 

“Back with your aspirin in a sec and then I’ll leave you to it,” he winked at Franky.

“I think he’s a poof,” Franky told Bridget as soon as Bruce had left.

“Why do you say that?” Bridget asked, fingers dancing lightly on the outside of Franky’s thigh.

“He’s handsome but in a pretty way,” Franky said, slipping her hand between Bridget’s and her thigh, palm to palm as fingers wove together. “And he winks. And – I don’t know – he wasn’t fazed by us.”

“I think you’re right, darling,” Bridget agreed.

“Darling, eh?” Franky smiled like the cat who ate the canary.

Bridget was more than satisfied with Franky’s response, the blonde’s cheeks pinking slightly as she pierced the water lid with a straw before handing it to Franky.

“Yeah,” she grinned. “What of it?”

“I love how that sounds when you say it,” Franky said.

Bridget leaned down again, lips beside Franky’s ear, whispering, “Will you love it when I’m moaning darling in your ear as I fuck you senseless?” 

“God, yes,” Franky managed, wondering where her voice had gone again. “I want that – I want you.”

Bridget lifted the plastic mask again and placed a hot, soft kiss full of promises on Franky’s lips. When they parted their eyes met, Franky’s hand caressing the side of Bridget’s face.

“One last interruption and then I’ll leave you in peace,” Bruce announced as he again entered the room. 

Bridget again stood, this time laying her hand lightly on Franky’s shoulder as Bruce made his way to the far side of the bed. He unfolded a three foot square blanket that was crocheted in stripes of purple and lime green.

“Bit of fruity colors in this one but it should warm you up nicely,” he smiled as he re-folded it before wrapping it around Franky’s handcuffed arm. “How’s that?” he asked as he finished tucking it around her.

“Aw, that’s great,” she said. “Thanks, mate.”

“Sure thing,” he smiled brightly. “Here’s your aspirin.” He produced a small paper cup and deposited two aspirin into her free hand. She swallowed them dry before taking another sip of water.

“Now is there anything else I can do for you right this moment?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” Franky replied. Her eyes sought Bridget’s for reassurance. The blonde just grinned at her.

“Good then,” Bruce said, coming around to the bedside closer to Bridget. “If you need anything in the night, push that buzzer or call the extension,” he pointed to the five digits on the dry erase board. Then he looked to Bridget, “If you plan to spend the night -” The rest of what the nurse said was lost on her as she tuned in to Franky’s gasp – known only to Bridget – at the mention of that possibility. Bridget felt all of the brunette’s energy and life force concentrated on her and she was totally delighted by that.

“I have to check on you every few hours but I’ll be as quick and quiet as possible,” Bruce continued. “But it should be pretty quiet until around 6:30 or 7 in the morning. So get some rest, you two.”

“Thanks,” Bridget smiled warmly.

“Yeah, thanks, Bruce,” Franky managed.

As soon as the door closed, Franky’s eyes flew to Bridget’s face.

“I’ll stay if you want me to,” Bridget said before Franky could even ask. 

“Of course I want you to,” Franky grinned in a way that totally stopped Bridget’s heart. “Oh my God, this is turning out to be the best day.” 

Bridget’s phone rang, Helen’s ringtone loud in the otherwise silent room.

Franky’s eyebrow shot up in curiosity about who would be calling so late.

“It’s my friend, Helen,” Bridget explained taking the few steps to the chair where she had discarded her phone and keys, marveling at the odd sensation of not being in physical contact with Franky. How quickly she’d grown accustomed to it. “She’s calling to check on you.”

Bridget accepted the call and sat back on the edge of the bed, immediately reaching for Franky’s hand again. “Helen, hi.”

“Hiya,” the Scot returned. “How is she?”

Bridget’s eyes fell to Franky’s face. Beyond the oxygen mask the younger woman was grinning like a fool – an adorable, love-struck fool. “She’s just fine,” Bridget replied. “I’m sitting here with her now.”

“Are they keeping her overnight?” Helen asked.

“Uh – yeah,” Bridget replied. “I’m going to stay.”

“Figured as much,” Helen said. “Need us to bring you anything?”

“No but thanks for offering,” Bridget answered. 

“I’ll let you go then,” Helen said. “We’re here if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Helen,” Bridget said again. “Love to you and Nikki.”

“Right back at ya, babes,” Helen said. “Bye.”

Bridget pushed end. She placed the phone on the rolling tray then returned her attention and both of her hands to Franky.

“You told your friends about me?” the brunette asked, satisfied grin on her face.

Bridget returned the smile. “Of course I did. Helen and her wife, Nikki, are my closest friends. 

“How’d you meet?” Franky asked. “No – wait. Before you answer that – I’m still waiting on an answer to the first personal question I asked you.”

Bridget shook her head wryly, remembering. She supposed that was as good a place to begin as any. “Her name was Mary Ellen. I was 16. She was captain of the JV rugby team. I was captain of the JV cheerleaders.”

Franky let out a shock of laughter, “Of course you were, Gidge. Tell me about it.”

The conversation had flowed naturally from there as Bridget began to open up to Franky, starting to level the playing field in terms of their personal knowledge of one another. Bridget began the conversation sitting on the bedside, hands entwined, but after a while she had reclined back on her side, feet to face with Franky.

Franky yawned as 2 a.m. neared. “I should let you get some sleep,” Bridget said, sitting up slowly, stretching her back.

“I can sleep anytime,” Franky said, a little anxious. “I want to talk with you. I mean, if you want to – “

“I’m right here, Franky,” Bridget reassured the younger woman, again entwining their hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Come here, you,” Franky beckoned, scooting to the far side of her bed, indicating for Bridget to join her.

The blonde looked to the door. The worst thing that could happen would be for someone to walk in. Franky’s parole was a done deal and technically Bridget no longer worked at Wentworth. Bridget drew in a deep breath and turned her face to the woman who had been in her heart and on her mind so constantly for the past few months and she nodded.

Bridget leaned over to unzip her boots and felt the brunette’s eyes devouring the patch of bare skin where her shirt rode up on her lower back. She sat up and slipped out of her jacket before tossing it onto the chair. Bridget’s focus returned to the younger woman and she held Franky’s gaze as she turned on her side and sank into the bed, face mere inches from Franky’s .

The electric heat between them was immense and Bridge tensed her thighs together, a futile attempt to quell her growing need. Franky was on her back with her head turned to the side and didn’t miss the subtle move. Her free hand pushed up the oxygen mask before she reached up, joining her hand with Bridget’s, pulling the blonde closer. She closed the distance between them and kissed Bridget softly on the lips.

Franky had long thought of kissing as foreplay, an appetizer to be consumed lustily. She had never wanted to kiss someone like this, in a way that was pure expression of love. The softness was intoxicating, as was the feelings it caused to flood through her, like mainlining a drug, love coursing through her veins. She hoped Bridget knew this, felt it too. She suspected the blonde did as her pulse hammered in her neck beneath Franky’s fingertips.

Franky slipped her hand and then arm through a gap between the taper of Bridget’s waist and the bed and she tipped the Blonde’s hips toward her, Bridget’s leg slipping naturally between hers.

Both women groaned at the contact and Bridget’s eyes fluttered closed. “Franky…” Bridget exhaled. It was too much. Franky dove into Bridget’s mouth, the urge to consume the delicious blonde overtaking her. Bridget opened to her fully, tongues and lips hungry, greedy, needy.

“Fuck,” Bridget panted when she eventually broke the kiss, rolling off of Franky so she, too, lay on her back, now beside the brunette. Bridget blindly reached for Franky’s hand as she willed herself to breathe, eventually turning her head to find Franky’s, adoration, desire and so much love written all over the brunette’s face.

“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything in my life,” Bridget said, grazing Franky’s nose and lips with her own. “But –“

“I know,” Franky smiled. “Not here, not yet.”

Bridget smiled and placed another soft kiss on the younger woman’s lips. “Goddamn you make me burn,” Bridget exhaled.

Franky kissed her lightly, cockiness seeping into her face as she played at being cool. “Oh yeah?”

Bridget traced her fingers along Franky’s jawline, leaning forward, feathering kisses from the corner of Franky’s mouth, along her cheekbone and to the junction between jaw and earlobe, where her tongue left its mark before she whispered, “I’ve been wet forever thinking about tasting you, being inside you, making you scream, feeling you come.” 

“Fuhhhhhhhhhhhkkkkk, Bridge,” the brunette sighed. “If you’re meaning to cool me down here you are failing spectacularly.”

“Turnabout is fair play, my darling, “Bridget smiled. “But seriously, if we’re ever going to get to sleep I may need to not be in the bed with you.”

“No, please,” Franky said, her hand tightening in Bridget’s. “Stay. We can do this. I think.”

“First, let’s get you settled to sleep,” Bridget suggested, propping up on her elbow. “Are you comfy propped up like this or would you prefer to be flat on your back.”

“Mmm, let’s try flat,” Franky suggested. Bridget found the bed hydraulic controls and maneuvered them until Franky was laying flat.

“Lift up a bit,” Bridget suggested. When Franky raised up Bridget rearranged her pillow and situated it under her head. “How’s that?”

“Downright cozy,” Franky smiled. “You know your way around a hospital bed, it seems.”

Franky watched the shadow cross Bridget’s face. Her own face melted quickly into one of concern. Glassy blue eyes met Franky’s as the blonde pondered where to begin – with the long, slow death of her beloved adopted father which played out in a series of hospital rooms not dissimilar to the one where they now were, or with the death of Jyoti, the first love of her life?

Franky drew Bridget’s hand to her lips, softly kissing sweet skin. Bridget again stretched out, rolling onto her stomach beside Franky. She propped up on her elbows, their faces barely six inches apart. Franky slipped her hand between Bridget’s nearest elbow and her ribs, reaching up to entwine their fingers together. Bridget studied the fusion of fingers and flesh and she smiled, placing her own kiss on Franky’s hand.

She found Franky’s eyes, her gaze alert but relaxed, rapt and so full of love. Bridget smiled in spite of the ache in her heart. She’d forgotten what a difference it made to hold the attention of someone who loved you in such a way. She resisted the urge to just chuck talking and wrap herself around Franky but she knew that by sharing these two stories in particular she would be truly opening herself and her heart to this woman. 

She met Franky’s eyes again, silently thanking God for this woman and her patience. “In five years I’ve lost two of the people I loved most in this world,” Bridget began.


	12. Jyoti & Ray & Franky & Bridget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you, dear readers, for hanging on for this series which took far longer to write than I anticipated. Thanks for loving Fridget as much as I do. And many, many thanks to sticks_and_stones for her brilliant writing on this pair and for her friendship and support of my work.

_She met Franky's eyes again, silently thanking God for this woman and her patience. "In five years I've lost two of the people I loved most in this world," Bridget began._

“You see the scar on my lip?” Bridget asked. Franky’s eyes went straight to it, a telling move that meant the detail hadn’t escaped her attention. Franky’s eyes slowly rose to meet Bridget’s.

“When I was ten, my father was drunk or high or both and he shoved me,” the blonde recounted. “We were in the kitchen and I lost my balance and my face hit the edge of the stove. It knocked out my two front teeth and split my lip.”

Bridget felt Franky’s breathing slow as she took this in, her grip on Bridget’s hand tightening ever so slightly. “Before that his physical abuse had all been for my mum,” she continued. “I’d been after her to leave him but this finally did the trick.” Bridget smiled to reassure the younger woman but she knew in her heart that was futile.

“He was a classic bully and had isolated mum from her family and friends, moved her from Perth to Melbourne,” Bridget explained. “We had no one, really, so we lived in a Catholic shelter for women and kids for the first couple of months while we got our feet under us. I loved it. Played cards with the sisters after school, had lots of other kids around. Most of all, we were free from my father. That summer we moved into a flat in this rather rough section of town but it was ours.”

“My new teeth were in,” Bridget continued. “And my lip was well on its way to healing. But I had no way of expressing my anger and pain about the situation, about my father, about my inability to affect change in the situation. Mum is… She was a primary school teacher and she’s just one of those young souls. I was generally the more adult of the two of us. I did a lot of the worrying. She didn’t really have the skills to help me cope.”

Franky was listening, rapt, right there with her and Bridget marveled at how much easier it was to talk about this in the close proximity of this woman. Bridget adjusted the position of her leg and felt Franky’s compensate, closing the newly-created space and pressing gently against her. She had forgotten what it was to take comfort in the feel of another person’s body and energy.

“I spent that summer pretty pissed off and started doing all sorts of self-harming,” Bridget said, eyes studying the seam between her fingers and Franky’s.

“Like what?” Franky asked gently.

“Shoplifting, drinking, cutting,” Bridget admitted. She drew in a breath and exhaled the residual shame that always pooled around her solar plexus when she spoke or thought about that time. She finally raised her gaze to meet Franky’s again. She found such compassion on the other woman’s face, Bridget couldn’t help but reach up and stroke the brunette’s cheek.

Bridget leaned and pushed the oxygen mask up once again, stealing a brief, sweet, soft kiss, before she continued. “I started a new school that fall. I was small and a stranger so I was an easy target. I was cornered this one time by this fucking Amazon of a girl, Christine. She was a tyrant, a full head taller than the rest of us, picked on me and other kids incessantly. She sat behind me in class and she wanted to copy off my paper. I told her no. She said if I didn’t she’d beat me up. So one afternoon she cornered me. I told her I wasn’t a cheat and asked what the real problem was.”

“It took a while – and a few missed blows - but it finally came out that she couldn’t see the chalk board. She needed glasses,” Bridget smiled, shaking her head lightly at the memory. Franky was still rapt, listening attentively to every word, watching Bridget with keen eyes that missed nothing. “She was always seated at the back of the class because of her height and so she had no idea what was going on. I took her to the teacher and explained the problem. She was wearing glasses in short time and suddenly we were… mates I guess. I had slayed the school dragon using my own problem-solving and words so I was golden, the most popular girl inside of days.”

“But, as you well know, you can help others even when you cannot help yourself,” Bridget said, entwining the fingers of one hand in Frankie’s free one, grazing her fingernails up and down the back of Franky’s hand with her other. “So I was popular, top grades, all was well. Then I’d come home and feel isolated and angry, ashamed – all corked up and leftover feelings about my father, swallowed resentment at my mum - and I would drink or cut or steal and that would bury the pain for a bit. I hid it well – mum never noticed a thing. I was great at not letting anyone see me, playing the role of the good girl. I went on that way and then in grade seven I got an academic scholarship to Emmaus College.”

Franky’s eyebrow arched, impressed. “They had this program – a camp, of sorts - before you start school so you can meet the other students and teachers. You’re assigned to houses for the school term, with specific mentors and the like,” Bridget continued. “I met this boy, James Westfall, who was also starting school. He had just lost his mum to cancer some months before and he was all torn up about it. Most of the other kids had friends there and neither of us did. Anyhow, we hit it off – instant friends.”

Franky’s mind reeled. “You mean there was another Westfall at your school? That’s a pretty big coincidence, eh?”

Bridget smiled, raising Franky’s hand to her lips for a kiss. “No – there was only one. My last name was still Brady.” She placed another soft kiss on Franky’s cheek, jaw and neck and the brunette exhaled, a moan of pleasure audible on her breath. It was astonishing how such a thing could set fire to Bridget in turn. If they’d not been under the imminent threat of random hospital staff or the guard posted outside the room walking in at any moment, it would have been impossible to not simply have her way with the delicious woman she lay entangled with.

Franky slid her mask up and pulled Bridget to her lips. After a heated moment, the blonde pulled back from the deepening kiss, sighing. “I so look forward to your freedom…”

“Fuck, Gidge. Me too,” Franky exhaled, clearly as worked up as she. “I want…” Her words fell away as she gazed into Bridget’s open, amorous eyes. The brunette swallowed hard against her own desire.

“I want that too,” the blonde whispered, breathlessly, caressing Franky’s face. “We can have that. We will have that. Soon, baby.”

With that, Bridget kissed her again, sweetly and pulled her own face a few inches further to lessen the temptation. As Franky nestled back into the pillow, Bridget tried to recall where she’d left off. “Yeah, so James,” she resumed. “We hung out and talked a lot. We just clicked, you know. When the weather got warm, he mentioned that his dad and he would go surfing on weekends and did I want to go. I was a good swimmer but hadn’t ever surfed. I loved the beach, though I’d not been too often, so I said yeah.”

“I didn’t really want them to see where I lived so I told him to pick me up at school,” Bridget said. “I knew his dad was a big-shot lawyer. So when he pulled up in this beat up old van, half a dozen surfboards on top, I was thrown for six. His dad had this mop of graying black hair pulled back into a ponytail. I don’t know what I was expecting but that wasn’t it.”

Bridget couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “He looked me over, sizing me up – not in a creepy way, but just kind of figuring me out. He smiled and told me to hop in. He was blasting a pop radio station – Journey, Foreigner, Chicago. As soon as we hit M-1, he turned the volume down and introduced himself. His name was Ray and he asked me a bit about myself. He and I chatted the whole drive. An hour and a half later we were in Torquay.”

“He asked if I wanted to learn to surf,” Bridget continued. “I said yeah and he pulled an 8-foot board for me. I could barely carry the thing,” she remembered and Franky grinned at the image of little Bridget and her board. “We were out for hours. James was quite good, though I knew his heart wasn’t in it. He did it to spend time with his dad. Which I could understand. Ray had this huge presence, this energy and also this profound calm. He was a handsome thing too, for an old guy, back in his day.” Franky was watching her closely and Bridget had no idea that the brunette was feeling a rising sense of jealousy, wondering whether Bridget had been married to James or Ray.

“Anyway, I tried and tried and couldn’t get up so I basically gave up and just lay there on my board watching James and Ray catch rides. After a while, Ray paddled over to me and asked what I was afraid of,” Bridget said, lost in the memory. “I sort of blew it off and said I just didn’t get the hang of it yet. I knew, from what James had told me, that Ray wasn’t easily fooled but I had no idea how he could just… see people. You know, see beyond the façade? Anyhow, he gave me a few technique pointers and pushed me to try again. Still, no good. He eventually came back over to me and said fear is something that holds us back from all sorts of things we’re meant to do. And if I could even just name my fears to myself then I would free myself to do so much more. I asked what he was afraid of, you know. Classic deflection. He said since losing his wife he had been afraid of a lot of things that he’d never feared before. That he talked to God when he was out there waiting for waves, that he gave thanks for what he had and admitted what he feared and just doing that somehow lessened the burden. Then he caught this fucking beast of a wave and rode it in, leaving me there on my board in the middle of the sea.”

“I stretched out and thought about what he’d said,” Bridget said, quietly, remembering. “I would eventually learn that’s how he dispensed wisdom. He’d drop a bit and leave you to chew on it. As for God, I was at loose ends. Catholicism held my curiosity – the rituals and rites, the ceremony of it. Mum was devout so I had that but I didn’t actually talk to God. So I lay there and just thought about my fears. I knew I had them but I’d never named them.”

“At some point, James paddled over to check on me, to be sure his dad hadn’t said anything too off base,” Bridget recalled. “James and Ray were so different. I know now that Ray’s directness felt a bit invasive to James, but no one had ever talked to me like that, with genuine interest and acknowledgment of my thoughts and feelings, so it was new and very welcomed for me.”

“The drive home was as quiet and calm as the ride there was not,” Bridget said. “All the drives home would be. We were all blissed out and exhausted from the day, in our own thoughts. Occasionally someone would puncture the music from the radio with a remembrance of a wave they caught, a fish they encountered, an observation, but for the most part we were in our own worlds.”

“We got back to the city and Ray drove me back to the school. No one was there, of course, and the sun was setting. He asked where my mum was,” Bridget said, shifting slightly, enjoying the warmth of Franky’s body beside her. “I tried to play it off, said she’d be there soon, but he insisted on waiting. After a few minutes, I said I’d just catch the bus. He wasn’t keen on that so he told me about this client he was representing. A man who got caught up in a robbery that turned into a murder. The man had kids and his wife was working two jobs so Ray offered to meet him at home. The man made excuses, suggested alternatives, but it boiled down to the fact that he was ashamed of where he lived and didn’t want Ray to see it. Thought he would think less of the guy if he did. He told the man, he knew terrible men who lived in mansions and veritable saints who lived with no possessions to their name, and everything in between. It’s not about where you live your life but how you live it, he said. And I sort of knew at that point – literally after one day of being around him – that Ray would be a significant figure in my life so I swallowed my pride and told him my address.”

Franky’s head was reeling with a thousand questions and Bridget felt the energy it was taking for the brunette to stay patient and listen. “I am telling the long version of the story,” Bridget smiled.

“I’m a captive audience, if you haven’t noticed,” Franky smiled beneath the mask. “And I’m loving this, so go on.”

“Ray’s words stuck with me. What was I afraid of? The answer was a lot so the following Saturday they picked me up again and I spent the day on my surfboard looking up at the sky and talking to God or the universe about my fears,” she said. “I couldn’t believe how much better I felt and so eventually I got up and tried surfing again. After some tries I got the knack and it was so fast and thrilling. You have to be totally present and unafraid – sort of visualizing yourself doing this physics-defying thing and it was incredible. That’s the day I started to really heal.”

“The next Saturday came and the next,” Bridget said. “Ray kept coaching me on my surfing until I really started to get the hang of it. After a few weeks, my mum was curious about who I was disappearing with each weekend so when I was heading out the door one morning, mum showed up dressed for a day at the beach. I was horrified, of course, but Ray was unfazed. He told her to hop in and we were off.”

“Ray and mum talked the whole ride down while James and I sat on the back bench seat watching it all unfold,” Bridget continued. “What we were really doing that whole day long was watching the two of them fall in love.”

“What?” Franky asked disbelieving. “It was the first and last time mum ever went with us on a surfing jaunt but yeah, it all began that day. Within a year they were married and we were all under one roof. James was my brother, which was brilliant, and Ray, this wonderful man who actually saw me and loved me for who I was, was the dad I’d never had. I took his name immediately. I wanted to be a Westfall.”

“Anyhow, two years ago he was diagnosed with cancer and six months later he was gone,” Bridget said. “His last two months were largely in hospital so I do, indeed, know my way around a hospital room.”

“Aw, shit, Gidge,” Franky said, again pushing her oxygen mask onto her forehead. “I’m so sorry for ya.” She squeezed Bridget’s hand, tears of empathy in her eyes.

“Thanks,” Bridget smiled warmly. “Me too. He’d have fucking loved you.”

Frankie’s eyebrows arched, “An ex-con who’s hot for his little girl? You sure about that.”

“Like I said, Ray saw people,” Bridget reminded her, kissing her lightly. “He’d have seen you, the real you. He’d have seen how amazing you are. It’s all right there for anyone who bothers to actually see you.”

“Ya think?” Franky asked, eyes ducking.

“I know, baby,” Bridget said, raising the brunette’s eyes to her own. “You will get out. We will give this a go. If you want to.”

“I think you know I do,” Franky grinned. “I hope you know.”

Bridget’s kiss was her answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Franky smiled when they parted. “And I’m glad you think Ray would’ve approved of me. I want to hear more about him but I also want to hear – you said you lost two people.”

“I did,” Bridget smiled, fingertips raking through Franky’s hair. Bridget drew in a breath and exhaled, settling Franky’s oxygen mask back on her face. “Jyoti was the first love of my life.” Franky’s heart stopped, as did her breathing, and it was several moments before either resumed. Bridget had felt the pause and waited for the brunette’s reaction to ease before she continued.

“We were together for nine years,” Bridget eventually began and then words failed – where to go next? To who she was? To the loss? To the way she moved, smelled, made Bridget’s heart race? That in the past five years, since losing Jyoti, Bridget’s heart hadn’t raced – until she met Franky? That first time Franky burst into group session, that Bridget’s long-hibernating heart had leapt back to life – before she even knew the woman she was now laying beside?

Her eyes met Franky’s and the concern she found there broke something within Bridget, cracked open her heart and she knew that against the odds she and Franky would be together.

Sliding Franky’s oxygen mask up again, and sealed this new knowledge with a kiss. She pulled back a few inches so their eyes met again.

“Five years ago she was in an accident,” Bridget said, tears streaming down her face. “She was just… gone. And I…” She swallowed hard. “I died a little too. And I’ve been alone… so alone… And…” A sob escaped Bridget’s throat and Franky used her one free arm to pull the blonde closer.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Franky said, tears welling in her own eyes.

“Neither are you, baby,” Bridget smiled, cupping the brunette’s jaw with soft fingertips. “Neither are you.”

_Fin._


End file.
